The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  Henry moved his head round again. Gunk stepped into his line of sight, wearing a stupid grin of triumph.

  ‘ Hiya, Frank — or whatever your name is.’

  ‘ What’s going on, Gunk? What’s this for?’

  Gunk held up a silencing finger. ‘Shut up, Frank. I know you’re a cop.’

  ‘ What the hell are you talking about? We’ve been through all this shit before. I am not a cop, so let me go.’

  Gunk shook his head. ‘I know you’re a cop. An undercover cop. I always knew, always suspected. Just something about you that never quite rang true for me. Intuition, I suppose you’d call it. Me in touch with my feminine side.’

  ‘ You’re wrong, Gunk. Now let me go.’

  ‘ I hate being done over by anybody, but when a cop does it, I’m really fucking annoyed.’ He leaned into Henry’s face. ‘So you know what? I’m going to make you suffer.’ He reached underneath Henry and found his belt buckle which he started to unfasten. All the while he retained eye-contact. ‘I, on the other hand, will enjoy this. Know what I mean?’

  Henry understood exactly. Gunk, who had previously indicated how much he would like to bugger Henry was now going to do just that. Henry started to struggle violently, all sorts of horrendous images flying through his mind. He strained against the twine which fastened his wrists.

  A gun appeared in Gunk’s hand. He shoved it into Henry’s cheek and roughly screwed the muzzle into Henry’s mouth, cracking against teeth. Henry stopped moving instantly. His eyes were wide open in fear. Gunk was breathing heavily.

  ‘ Now then, Frank, if that’s what you want to be called, the choice you have is very simple. Honestly. Stop struggling and let this thing take its natural course like two grown men and I won’t be rough with you. I mean, I will fuck you good and proper, that definitely will happen. Alternatively you can have a bullet in your mouth now. Your choice, pal. Death or rape.’ Gunk’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I know which I’d choose.’

  Loz threw Danny down on to the sand between two fishing boats, hardly fifty yards away from the promenade.

  He dropped on top of her like a dead weight, forcing himself between her legs, driving all the air out of her body, and pulling her skirt up over her hips. He jammed his dirty bandaged hand over her mouth and with his other he held her left wrist, effectively pinning her down. She could hardly move underneath him.

  ‘ Now then, you fucking flighty bitch,’ he panted into her face, spittle bubbling out of his mouth. The exertion of the struggle with her across the beach had expended most of his stamina. However, he was on top, in control, had the power. He smiled wickedly and ground his pubic’ bone against hers. She whimpered. ‘You’ve been asking too many questions, causing too many ripples. This is just a warning to you — fuck off back to England and don’t come nosying down here again, or next time, you’re a dead bitch. Got that?’

  He allowed her to nod her head.

  ‘ Good,’ he sneered. ‘But now that we’re here,’ he went on, ‘all intimate, no point in missing a chance, is there?’ He simply could not resist. He released her hand and reached down to unzip his trousers.

  Bad move on his part.

  Danny had no wish to discover what delicacy lay waiting behind his flies. Nor would she ever placidly accept being sexually assaulted. She would rather have died. She did two things simultaneously. Although his bandaged hand smelled awful, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into it; she also grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into his eyes and followed through with a punch, though it wasn’t as rock-solid as she would have liked.

  Loz screamed and rolled over, not knowing whether to nurse his hand or rub his eyes.

  ‘ You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!’ he yelled in agony, getting to his knees.

  Danny had a surge of power and energy, resources tapped from the well of self-preservation. She smacked Loz hard across the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Then she really laid into him, screaming wildly, incoherently, savagely kicking him repeatedly about the head, ribs, guts and legs. He rolled with the blows, scrambling wildly to escape from the barrage, now having lost all the advantage.

  Danny was remorseless in her attack, until Loz secured a foothold in the sand, dragged himself to his feet and ran away.

  Danny watched him, her eyes afire, doubled over with exertion, unable to give chase. He loped on to the promenade like a wounded animal and disappeared up a side street.

  When she had regained control of her breathing and heart rate, Danny found her handbag in the sand and liberated a cigarette from it. She lit it with dithering hands.

  Now she knew for certain: she really had rattled somebody’s cage. She knew she should have reported the matter there and then to the police — but the thought of dealing with the Spanish cops filled her with dread. It would turn into a bureaucratic nightmare… if anything came of this, she wanted some English-speaking back-up behind her.

  Terry Briggs was feeling worried. He checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d driven away from Henry and Gunk. As he had pulled away, Henry had given a thumbs-up which, in the sign language the two undercover officers had developed between themselves, meant ‘call me in half an hour if I haven’t already made contact’.

  Terry had twice tried Henry’s mobile but had not been able to make a connection. It was possible Henry’s batteries were down or that his machine was switched off — but only possible, not probable. A working mobile phone was a lifeline for U/C officers these days and only a reckless one would let the mobile become inoperative. Henry wasn’t reckless.

  Terry had driven out of Rochdale and taken the road across the moors towards Blackburn. He had stopped close to a pub called Owd Bett’s.

  Forty minutes, then forty-five passed. Not good.

  Terry weighed up the odds of cocking the job up, but decided to drive back to the industrial unit anyway. He would think up some excuse for his return if necessary.

  He did a U-turn and headed back towards Rochdale. He went into Healey Dell from the opposite direction and bounced down the road towards the industrial estate. As he turned off the road, he slammed on to avoid Gunk’s Jeep which careered out of the estate, slithering and sliding on the loose ground, no lights displayed. Terry caught a glimpse of Gunk at the wheel. There was a savage expression on his features as he threw the fourwheel-drive vehicle around. Then he was gone. With trepidation Terry edged the van across the bumpy ground towards the unit.

  Henry’s XJS was parked in exactly the same spot.

  Terry’s stomach churned.

  Terry could see a light behind the shutter door. He reached under his seat and picked up the expandable baton secured underneath. With a flick of the wrist, he cracked it out to its full length. He switched the van engine off, leaving the headlights on, then stepped slowly down. All was quiet. He could hear nothing at first, then there was something, a sort of sobbing or moaning from inside the warehouse. He approached the side door, fear of the unknown gripping him, his chest palpitating. He stepped inside. Apprehensively with the tip of the baton he pushed the next door, the one which opened out into the unit.

  At the sight before him, Terry’s mouth dropped open in shock.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fifteen

  Through his dubious contacts in the north of Lancashire, Smith had arranged accommodation for himself and Billy Crane the night before the robbery was due to be committed in a grotty, damp-ridden flat in the west end of Morecambe, an area of town with a shifting population, where crime and drugs were facts of everyday life and strangers did not stand out because everyone was a stranger. It was a good choice of location.

  Billy Crane had been unable to get any real sleep. Three a.m. saw him up and about, making black coffee for himself after having to feed the electric meter with coins. He sat on the kitchen floor next to a cold oil-filled radiator, shivering as he sipped the brew.

  He moved into what was euphemistically known as the living room. The sum to
tal of the furniture was a double-seater settee with its wiry insides protruding dangerously, and a creaky hard-backed dining chair. There was a gas fire, however, which Crane lit cautiously with a match. He half expected the thing to explode and end the biggest day of his life with a spectacular bang even before it had begun. Without switching the light on, Crane dragged the chair up to the window, sat on it and rubbed the condensation away. The street below was dark and quiet.

  His mind was alive, churning with endless questions. Had he done this, arranged that, seen to this, fixed that up? Going over every possibility and scenario in his mind, desperate to seek out the weak link in the coming hours. He was experienced and cynical enough to know there would be one, but he could not put his finger on it — other than to realise that, as in all crimes, the weak link was the human element. That is what always lets you down. The grass, the greed, the weakness, could never be truly catered for.

  He rolled his read. His neck cracked.

  A smile grew on his lips. He was unbelievably excited by the situation. He had thought he would never again turn to crime of this nature. Robbery was so old hat and very hard to pull off without getting caught that most big time operators like himself had turned to easier ways of making a living. And yet, actually committing a crime like this was better than anything; better than sex, better than the rush of a drug. It was the ultimate experience. Nothing could touch it. He curled his right hand into a fist and gave the air a little jab. ‘Yessss,’ he whispered behind gritted teeth. ‘Fucking good.’

  A cop car rolled on to the street, lights out, creeping slowly along. Instinctively Crane drew back, watched it progress past the building in which the flat was situated.

  It U-turned at the end of the street and crawled back down. Then it was gone.

  Crane exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. He could feel his heart hammering, nerves twisting his innards. He was pleased he felt like this. On edge. Therefore sharp. Therefore able to perform.

  He stood up and walked into the bedroom, where Don Smith lay asleep on the rickety single bed. Crane slid into the sleeping bag on the floor and closed his eyes.

  There was a long day ahead.

  Colin Hodge reported for work at the Preston depot at 6 a.m. As driver for the day it was his responsibility to check over the vehicle, ensure the tank was full, it was clean, there was air in the tyres and that the electronic tracker system was working correctly; he also had to fill in the driver’s log and insert the tachograph. His check, as always, was thorough. It took half an hour, by which time his three colleagues had reported in.

  They had a quick brew in the refreshment room.

  Halfway through his cup of tea, Hodge stood up suddenly and said, ‘Jeez!’ He held his stomach and winced painfully. ‘Had a curry last night down at the Star… urgh… it’s not agreeing with me at all. I’ve been shitting through the eye of a needle.’ After he had spoken these poetic words, conjuring up such a romantic image, and much to his workmates’ amusement, he rushed to the toilet.

  The ‘curry’ story was all part of the act. He had not eaten Indian the night before, but he needed to set the scene for the day ahead.

  Nevertheless he did have to go to the toilet in a hurry because his bowels were a maelstrom of fearful turbulence. It was the big day. The one he had dreamed of and planned for, the one which would end his relative poverty for good.

  He only just reached the toilet in time.

  As industrial estates in Lancashire go, White Lund, on the outskirts of Morecambe on the Lancaster boundary, is pretty big. Hundreds of businesses operate from it, from well managed, prosperous, totally legitimate concerns, to seedy operations run by seedy operators down dingy dead-end roads — and everything in between the two extremes.

  It was to one of these seedy operations that Don Smith drove Billy Crane later that morning.

  Crane had managed to get back to sleep after his earlier bout of insomnia and was surprised to find Smith waking him at 8 a.m. They had strolled down to the promenade at Morecambe and devoured a big, fat boy’s breakfast at one of the sea-front cafes. Thus fortified, they returned to their lodgings, picked up their car — hired under false details and later to be destroyed — and drove up to White Lund.

  They were using the warehouse owned by a guy who was predominantly dodgy. The man dealt in huge volumes of smuggled cigarettes, alcohol and perfumes from the continent, brought in either via the south coast ports or through Heysham, near Morecambe, by way of Southern Ireland. He supplied numerous independent retailers, mainly off-licences, chemists and market-traders with goods at rock-bottom prices. He made a very tidy living. He had been warned off by Smith and well-paid to take a day’s holiday.

  Smith now had the keys and the alarm code.

  ‘ This looks good,’ Crane commented as they drew up in front of the high steel gates outside the warehouse. The gates formed part of a twelve-foot-high fence which encircled the premises. Opposite the warehouse was a wide tract of spare land and no other business nearby had a direct line of sight to the warehouse, which is probably why the owner picked it in the first place, so business could be conducted unobserved.

  The warehouse was low and long and big. There were three doors at the front, two roller doors, one of which opened into a loading bay, and a normal door.

  ‘ That’s why I chose it,’ Smith smiled. He jumped out of the car and unlocked the gates. Crane slid behind the wheel and drove the car into the yard, leaving it parked there. It was 9 a.m. People would begin arriving soon.

  Forty miles to the south, Henry Christie pulled off the A59 and drove slowly through the entrance to Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters at Hutton, near to Preston. He flashed his badge at the security man who waved him through impatiently and with the minimum of formality. Briefly Henry wondered about the level of security, not just at police headquarters, but at all police establishments. It was pretty lax, but he was reassured to have been told that in the not too distant future a perimeter fence was to be built and a proper procedure for entering and leaving the place introduced. However, before he could pursue any critical thought, the question of security left him as quickly as it had arrived, like a bubble bursting, and his mind segued back into the state of numbness which had been its feature over the last couple of weeks.

  Automatically he turned first left after the gatehouse into Hutton Hall Avenue. On his left were former police houses, all now offices for various departments, including Discipline amp; Complaints and Performance Review. He trundled slowly past the rugby field on his right. As ever it was superbly maintained and looked wonderful in the early morning sunshine. Henry had played regularly on it in his younger days having, in fact, been rather a star of the county team for a couple of years in the late 1970s.

  There would be no game that morning.

  The windsock was out in one corner of the pitch, drooping obscenely in the breeze-free day and a huge letter ‘H’ had been unrolled, on one half of the pitch. That meant the Force helicopter would be landing later. Henry drove past, not really registering anything, then turned on to the driveway of the house which now belonged to the Occupational Health amp; Welfare Unit (OHWU).

  He sat in the car for several minutes, blinking absently. The cassette-player was turned up loud, blasting out the latest studio album by the Stones. The songs perfectly matched the way Henry was feeling, particularly the loud rocker called ‘Flip the Switch’; in it, over Keith Richards’s harsh guitar chords, Mick Jagger sang sneeringly about a guy being executed by electric chair, encouraging the authorities to get the power turned on so that he could get into the filthy pit of hell… into which Henry firmly believed he was stuck at that moment in time.

  He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of water, took a mouthful. For a few seconds, whilst rushing the cool, apple-flavoured drink around his tongue, teeth and gums, his mouth felt fresh. He swallowed; within moments the taste had returned, making him retch.

  Henry switch
ed the engine off and got lethargically out.

  The sleek BMW was next to pull in through the gates of the warehouse yard. Smith was operating the roller door, yanking the chain quickly, making enough of a gap for the German car to drive in. The door rolled shut as he released the chain.

  Billy Crane directed the car across to the far side of the warehouse.

  Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov climbed out and walked back towards Crane and Smith.

  All were dressed in dark clothing and trainers. They looked mean and ready for business, exuding the smell of danger.

  Crane eyed them through slitted lids, wondering, his nostrils flaring, a sense of unease in him… He shook it off, smiled and offered his hand to each of them in turn, welcoming them. He led them into the office where he made coffee.

  ‘ How goes it?’ Thompson enquired.

  ‘ No problems,’ Smith replied. He checked his watch. ‘Plenty of time yet.’

  Not many minutes behind Henry Christie, Danny Furness also arrived at Headquarters, driving her nippy little Mazda MX-5, a car she had purchased following an insurance payout on her last car which had been stolen and torched. She turned left, as Henry had done, and drove past the OHWU just as Henry was walking up the driveway towards the door of the unit. He was the last person Danny expected to see. She thought he was still away working U/C. She saw him, slammed on and pipped her horn to attract his attention, waving madly — delightedly — at him. He frowned, a puzzled expression on his face — and Danny covered her mouth in shock. He peered towards her for a few moments, then realised who was honking at him. He waved listlessly and approached her like it was a chore, almost dragging his feet.