by Nick Oldham
‘ What about the killer himself? Anything further on him?’
Davison shook his head. ‘No, looks like a pay-per-kill job. In and out, no trace, no leads.’
‘ What about my wire?’ Henry asked, referring to the tape recorder he was wearing at the time of the killing. ‘Anything from that?’
‘ No — too much rustling and banging and distortion.’
‘ The getaway car?’ Henry asked hopefully. There were a lot of negatives.
‘ Not turned up. We reckon it’s been recycled. Loads of scrap yards in the region are being visited, but there’s nothing yet. Either that or it’s in a deep quarry somewhere. I’ll be getting the diving branch to check the best-known dumping places.’
‘ Anything from my description of the driver?’
‘ Nothing concrete, but we do have a suspect. A young lad from a council estate in Salford, suspected of driving at robberies. He’s being looked into…’ Davison paused mid-sentence and quickly said, ‘but very discreetly, of course, as part of the wider picture because your description of him doesn’t exist, does it?’
‘ No, it doesn’t, does it?’ Henry said sourly. Maybe he was prejudging Davison, but he had dropped the question in about the description purposely and got the reply he didn’t want to hear. He breathed in, eyeballing Davison. Not a happy chappie.
‘ I want you to swear to me that our statements have not been used in any way to further this investigation,’ Henry insisted.
The air turned cold as an atmosphere settled on the room.
Davison squirmed, as if his anus had contracted and relaxed.
‘ Because if they have,’ Henry continued, ‘I’m not going back in.’
‘ They haven’t,’ the Superintendent said firmly, but a little too quickly for Henry’s liking.
Colin Hodge should have enjoyed the ninety-minute hydrofoil crossing to La Gomera more than he did. A sense of impending doom about the whole scenario which he himself had engineered blinded his senses. He sat on the upper deck of the Fred Olsen ferry, totally unmoved by the magnificent sight of a school of dolphins accompanying the ship, his guts churning with fear rather than sea-sickness.
The ferry slowed and manoeuvred into San Sebastian, disgorging foot passengers and vehicles on to the harbour side.
Hodge stood by the water’s edge underneath the burning hot sun, looking towards the town, shading his eyes. An old, dusty brown Mercedes drove slowly along the dock towards him, against the flow of traffic leaving the boat.
Loz tapped Hodge on the shoulder. He had also been a passenger on the ferry, easily keeping out of Hodge’s view amongst the holidaymakers and locals on board. Hodge spun quickly and recognised Loz as the mysterious guy who had delivered the poolside message to him earlier. The bandaged hand gave it away for sure. This time Hodge could see Loz’s features properly: a pointed, rather mean face, thinning hair drawn back into a pony tail tied with a red ribbon. The face displayed the bruises of a recent assault. His mouth was twisted into a permanent half-grimace, showing discoloured and crooked teeth. His bandaged hand was laid across his stomach, supported by his other hand. Hodge thought the facial expression was probably connected with the pain from his hand.
‘ Get in the car.’ Loz pointed to the brown Benz. It had stopped close by.
‘ Not until I know where I’m going.’ Hodge dug his heels in with a show of bravado.
‘ To see the boss.’
‘ Not good enough.’
Loz eyed him with pissed-off contempt. ‘Look, I don’t give a monkey’s fart whether you get in or not — and nor does my boss. You can fuck off back on the ferry if you want, but don’t even think of going back to the apartment if you do. The hospitality will have ended. Just fuck off back to England.’
‘ I’ve got something your boss wants.’
‘ Yeah, sure,’ Loz sighed. ‘Just make your mind up.’ He walked to the car and opened a rear door, made a sweeping gesture with his good hand, as a footman might, and raised his eyebrows.
The spur of the moment saw Hodge climb in. The prospect of a share in fifty million pounds overwhelmed him and made the danger seem worthwhile.
Loz sat in the front seat next to the driver. He slid on a pair of shades and gave a quick wave to a cop lounging by a police car. The Mercedes swung round on the harbour and headed towards San Sebastian.
‘ What happened to your hand?’ Hodge asked.
‘ I stuck it in a lion’s mouth.’
It is never a good thing to walk out of a briefing feeling that you have been lied to, but that is exactly what Henry Christie did that afternoon. He left the classroom and wandered out of the training school into the car park which had once been a parade square.
Henry easily and affectionately remembered the early days of his police service — the mid-1970s — when drill had still been a big part of a Probationer Constable’s curriculum and he had marched everywhere. Now very little drill was done. The modern philosophy was that discipline and responsibility should come from within a person, rather than from the parent-like authority of the organisation, via a drill pig.
Henry had hated drill. Not having any natural rhythm (on the dance-floor he was a ludicrous spectacle), he had been uncoordinated and gangling — particularly as a spotty, pasty-faced youth of nineteen; he was often out of step, having to constantly readjust and re-time his stride with a series of silly shuffles. He could never take marching seriously. Even then, when he knew no different, he thought it was a complete waste of time. Consequently he had suffered much ritual humiliation and tongue-lashings by Drill Sergeants, usually for his lack of timing, often for having hair that was too long (very early in his service, he had been literally dragged to the Force joiner, a position no longer in existence, who also doubled as a barber: the man scalped Henry without mercy) and for his untidy uniform and non-regulation socks and shoes. In those days, being a bit of a rebel, he insisted on wearing black socks with coloured flecks in them and black brogues, as opposed to the prescribed black socks and plain-fronted black shoes or boots.
These days, he in turn often complained bitterly about the standard of recruits, their cockiness and slovenly appearance… such was the perspective of age.
Henry perched his backside on the wing of the XJS and unhooked his mobile phone from his belt. He tapped in a number.
It was, as they say in the world of the undercover cop, ‘scam time’.
This was the most enjoyable part of the job. Daily trying to think up ways of setting up villains for a fall, yet protecting all the players and informants along the way. Plotting against the bastards with the only limit being imagination and creativity. The beauty of it being that no matter how outlandish the plot, if it seemed remotely feasible, then it would be attempted.
Henry had once concocted a beautiful one which had taken only a few weeks to jack up and execute. It had been the ‘scamming’ of a bent solicitor in Carlisle who was strongly suspected of laundering money for the criminals he defended. The set-up had included going into a police station posing as contracted painters and decorators without anyone who worked there, other than the Superintendent in charge of the station, knowing they were undercover cops. Henry and a small team actually redecorated the custody suite and at the same time installed miniature cameras, which recorded sound too, in one of the interview rooms. These devices were connected to a transmitter fitted secretly on the roof of the police station which beamed sound and pictures a mile across town to an office which had been rented for the operation.
The next part of the scam involved the use of two U/C officers from the South of England and their real arrest on suspicion of possession of drugs; the timing of this had to coincide with a period when the bent brief was on call as the duty solicitor.
It worked like a dream. The solicitor was requested by the ‘prisoners’, who then embroiled him unwittingly into the seam, but willingly into a conspiracy involving?300,000, a stash of cocaine and some false passports. He was subseque
ntly arrested and convicted, and received six years for his troubles.
The operation highlighted another danger facing U/C cops: sometimes they got arrested together with their targets and there is no possible way of saying to the Custody Officer, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m really a cop.’ For one thing, they won’t believe you, but if they did, they would still detain you and then your troubles would really begin.
Henry had once been arrested. It had been a real arse-twitching, bottle-testing time, sitting in a cell with a dry mouth, wondering if it was going to work out without his cover being blown, or whether he would be spending a week on remand where the possibility of recognition was very real.
Henry held the mobile phone to his ear. It rang for a short time and then was answered, making his stomach lurch.
‘ Is that Gary Thompson?… It’s Frank Jagger here…’ Scam time had begun.
They drove out of San Sebastian and immediately began to climb the excellent but winding highway which snaked across the centre of La Gomera. Soon they were on top of the island. The air was clear and the brilliant blue sky seemed close enough to touch.
Then they were in the cloud forest, high trees either side of the road, obscuring views but with occasional breaks through which spectacular vistas could be glimpsed.
‘ I need a cigarette,’ Loz said to the driver, who had yet to speak. ‘What about you?’ he asked over his shoulder to Hodge.
‘ You bet.’ He was gasping.
‘ Pull in here,’ Loz indicated to the driver. It was a lay-by next to the road with a sign indicating a viewpoint.
The Mercedes slowed and edged off the road, tyres scrunching on the loose stones. Loz dived out and meandered to a bench which he leaned against, blinking at the scenery.
Hodge came up behind him, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. ‘Where we going?’
‘ You’ll see soon.’
They smoked in silence until Loz stamped his cigarette out and turned to Hodge who had just finished his. ‘Time to go.’
The driver, who had approached quietly, slid a black hood over Hodge’s head, drew a string tightly around his neck and wrestled him to the ground. Loz assisted him to strap Hodge’s hands together with tape and drag him to the Mercedes, where they threw him bodily across the back seat.
Danny spent the day reading everything that had accumulated from the murders of Cheryl, Spencer and the unidentified male. Even in such a short space of time, masses of material — intelligence, evidence and dross — had accumulated. She studied it all carefully in the hope that her detective’s mind would find the missing link, or hit on that one vital piece of information everyone else had missed, slot everything together and come up with some answers.
It did not happen.
Although she acknowledged her ‘action’ was probably a key to the whole thing, the most likely avenue for a result in the short term was through the garage owner, Peter Maynard. Three people don’t just get murdered in your business premises without you knowing something about it.
In interview he had admitted nothing and in the end he was released on police bail.
He was now under covert surveillance and permission was being sought from the appropriate authority to tap his phones at home and work. Sooner or later he would let something slip. At least, that was the hope.
Most resources were concentrating on him, others were trying to trace the source of the drugs that Cheryl had been carrying.
Danny closed the big fat ring-binder and leaned her elbows on it, cradling her face. It was almost nine o’clock, Monday evening, four days into the enquiry. In a few minutes there would be a flood of officers in the Incident Room for the evening debrief. Each one would have to report on progress made or, in Danny’s case, progress not made. After that, most of them would probably go for a drink.
Danny decided she would be going straight home and hitting the sack.
Chapter Ten
That night, as Henry Christie cruised through the streets of Manchester in the firm’s Jaguar XJS, eventually finding a parking spot, the city was heaving with bodies. It was a cold night, but that did not stop most of the young men on the prowl from dressing in jeans and skimpy T-shirts or vests. The women were no more sensible; their skirts were nothing more than wide belts, displaying a mixed variety of legs and ankles, and their tops were paper-thin and appeared to be several sizes too small for their chests.
Henry, with his leather jacket slung casually over his shoulder, did not look too much out of place. He might have felt like the oldest swinger in town, but in the persona of Frank Jagger he swaggered confidently amongst the crowds, smiling at the women, scowling dangerously at the lads who were happy to avoid this older, tough-looking guy, giving him a wide berth.
Music, occasionally muted, blaring mostly, emanated from the licensed premises, betraying their characters: heavy rock, disco, jungle or pop. The smell of greasy fast food invaded Henry’s nostrils as well as the acrid scent of grass.
Everyone was ecstatic. There was not the ever-present lurking atmosphere of violence that was so apparent in other big cities. People were out here to enjoy themselves, though maybe the highly visible cops played their part too.
Henry threaded his way through the city centre until he arrived at the front door of ‘Angel’s Silver’ off Cross Street. It was close to midnight and a long queue waited patiently for admission into the night club. Some people had a horrendously long wait ahead of them as the doormen were allowing only a couple or three people in at a time. Henry knew this was a good club and had he been twenty-odd years younger, he would have meekly joined the queue.
Frank Jagger did not have the time to hang around.
He sauntered down the line, aware of eyes following him, mostly angry ones because they could sense he was about to jump the whole lot of them and walk straight in. He ignored the looks, keeping a thin smile on his face.
When he reached the front, he waited patiently as the doors were opened and a giggling couple admitted. The doormen turned out towards the queue, both dressed in black trousers and dark red T-shirts, probably to hide the bloodstains, Henry thought.
They looked formidable. Non-nonsense bastards. They sneered down their noses at Henry, arms folded across their chests, aware that they could make or break people’s nights out.
‘ What?’ one said. He had a shaved head, goatee beard, earrings and forearms as thick as car tyres, plastered with very tasteful tattoos. He did not wait for an answer from Henry. ‘The back of the queue is that way.’ He raised a forefinger. ‘So fuck off and find it. There’s no favours here, pal,’
Henry moved in close to him. The guy tensed up, expecting violence. ‘I’m here to see Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick. They’re expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’
The bouncer deflated and opened the door with a quiet, ‘Sorry.’
Henry entered the club, accompanied by cat-calls from the patient queue. He gave them a middle-finger salute.
In the steamy seaside resort of Blackpool, someone else was entering a night club at exactly the same time as Henry.
Danny Furness had attended the evening debrief and listened intently as investigating officers brought the SIO team up-to-date with progress so far. In a nutshell there had been none. Although Danny knew she should not have been pleased by the news, in a wicked sort of way she was glad everyone else was getting nowhere. Just like her.
She had been very tired and had made a commitment to herself that she would go straight home to bed.
Her willpower was tremendous.
At the very moment one of her fellow detectives asked her if she wished to join him and a few others for a bevy in a local pub, her resolve to go home came down faster than the Berlin Wall. She said yes. All of a sudden her taste buds were demanding that a cool Stella Artois and lime should be showered over them. Once that image was fixed, there was no turning back for Danny.
It was about time she went out with a group of people from work, she justified to herself.
Up to now, since Jack had killed himself, she had only been out with close friends on sour, introverted nights, often ending in tears. She had never let her hair down, hiked up her skirt and had a good laugh.
Danny needed a bit of a bender. She had to move on, stop thinking about the past, stop moping about Henry Christie, get on with her life, get it lived.
And the way to kicks tart it might just be a couple of drinks, a few ciggies, and a belly laugh or two at some inappropriate jokes.
Even before leaving the police station, her intended alcoholic intake had doubled. Still, what was the harm? A couple or three halves
… she could easily drive home on that. Well under the limit. No problem.
The Murder Squad were in good fettle. Despite their lack of progress they were all buoyant and cheerful. It was early days, there were so many things to go on and all were confident of a quick result. And a good team-building session was exactly what was needed to keep the momentum going — that and the fact that for at least another week, overtime was not an issue.
By the time Danny had consumed her fourth half-lager, moved on to dry white wine and soda and fired up her sixth cigarette on the trot, the determination to keep consumption down had disappeared into the smoky atmosphere. She was well into the dynamics of the session, which looked like being a good one and she didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone or anything other than getting ‘rat-arsed’, going to a club for a dance and then getting a mouth-charring Vindaloo.
Which is why she found herself, surrounded by half a dozen male detectives, heaving her way to the front of a queue outside a night club in the resort, ignoring shouts from the people who were waiting, huddled against a fierce biting wind swirling in from the sea and being allowed in on the production of what is affectionately referred to as the ‘International Club Card’ — otherwise known as a warrant card.
The fact that every other detective was a man, each one of them with designs on getting into her knickers, did not put Danny off at all. She was going to thoroughly enjoy the night and tease all their pricks and egos if need be… unless one of them really took her fancy and she did more than tease.
