The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  Then it was done. The money was in. Crane and Smith slammed the rear doors shut.

  Hawker jumped into the driver’s seat of the security van and started the engine. A minute later he was on the M6 heading south. Behind him, in one of the Audis, was Price. Their task was to run the van down to Staffordshire and dump it about a mile away from the gates of the security waste-disposal unit. By doing this, time would be bought for Crane and Smith to sort out the money as necessary — if the radio-control room of the security company were not alarmed by the length of the stoppage which would have been transmitted to them from the tracker unit fitted to the van.

  Putting their minds at rest was Hawker’s first job.

  ‘ Alpha One to base, Alpha One,’ he called up on the radio system.

  ‘ Alpha One — go ahead. We’ve been concerned.’

  ‘ All OK. Repeat, all OK,’ Hawker said coolly. ‘A bad case of the runs in here today, but we’re back on the road now. Please inform the waste centre we’ll be running late.’

  ‘ Roger — wilco.’

  The money weighed down the back of the Sherpa, making steering light and very imprecise. Crane edged slowly away from between the two HGVs, but instead of driving on to the motorway, he went up the Staff Only road at the back of the service area, turned right at the end of it, and drove over the motorway towards the A6. From there he would travel north up to Lancaster and then back over to the warehouse in Morecambe.

  While he drove, Smith busied himself with a mobile phone and left a message on a pager.

  In the truckers’ cafe on the northbound side of the service area, two lorry drivers had been dawdling over a long meal and numerous cups of coffee. One of them received Smith’s pager message. He looked up at the other man and nodded. ‘Time to move.’ These were the two men who had earlier parked the two curtainsided heavy goods vehicles parallel to each other, leaving a space wide enough for the security van to squeeze into. They paid for their grub, then walked across the covered footbridge to the southbound side of the services. Their task was to now abandon the HGVs. A few moments later both were thundering down the motorway. Unbeknown to one of them, he was carrying four corpses.

  Smith slid his mobile phone on to the dash. ‘That went like a fucking dream, even if I say so myself.’

  Crane nodded grimly. He negotiated a tight curve in the road.

  ‘ No cops, nothing,’ Smith said. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘ They’ll be wondering what’s hit them,’ Crane agreed. He checked his mirrors. Close behind was the Audi sports car driven by Gunk Elphick. Thompson was in the passenger seat, Drozdov in the rear. Crane recalled the Russian’s actions in swiftly disposing of the two security guards, almost as a challenge. The man was a ruthless, clinical killer, someone to be wary of. ‘It’s not over yet,’ Crane said. ‘Not by a long chalk.’

  Henry remembered that when he had joined the police twenty-odd years earlier he had actually been issued with a piece of yellow chalk; it had come with his appointments — his staff and handcuffs — and also a tape measure and two pairs of white cotton gloves. He had only ever used the chalk once and had lost the tape measure and gloves. He was thinking about this because he was watching a traffic officer dutifully marking the position of the vehicles in the road with her piece of trusty yellow chalk. Subsequently she would measure up the scene and draw a plan of the accident.

  The road was closed in both directions, completely blocked, probably for several hours to come. The traffic department, now renamed the Road Safety Department, had moved in and taken control. The Fire Brigade were busy disentangling the gnarled wreckage of the tractor/trailer unit and the Ford Escort. It was proving a difficult thing to achieve and was made all the more distasteful by the ghost-like presence of the headless body trapped in the driver’s seat, still gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

  Henry and Danny stood a little way back, leaning on her scratched and battered MX-5.

  Henry’s euphoria at the chase had dissipated; his excitement gone. He was starting to feel cold and not a little dithery. Maybe shock was setting in. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

  Next to him, Danny stood there arms folded, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. She was slightly disgusted with herself in that she was more concerned with her damaged car than a fatal road traffic accident victim. She was about to remonstrate with Henry but stopped when she caught sight of FB approaching, purpose in his stride and a bundle of something in his hands.

  ‘ Yours, I believe,’ he said, presenting Danny with two smashed side mirrors. She took them from him and tossed them into the back of the MX-5. To Henry he said, ‘Is this the guy who did the ‘copter?’ He jerked his thumb towards the carnage.

  Henry looked down at FB. He was much taller than him. ‘I think so.’

  FB chortled with disbelief. ‘You think so? Fuck me, that’s brilliant. You chase some poor fucker and chop his friggin’ head off — and you think so? For your sake, it better be right, otherwise you’ve some real hard explaining to do — because I won’t be doing it for you when the press come snapping, understand?’

  Henry shrugged. He had expected nothing more.

  ‘ What a bleedin’ mess, this and the bomb scare at Control Room.. ’ FB was saying to no one in particular when one of the traffic officers came from the crash scene and said, ‘Excuse me — found this tucked down between the dead guy’s legs.’ She held up a revolver between finger and thumb. A blob of blood dribbled off the end of the barrel.

  FB eyed Henry, who allowed himself a wry, slightly victorious smile. ‘You’re a lucky bastard,’ FB said, licking his lips.

  ‘ Aren’t I just?’ said Henry. To the traffic officer he said, ‘Get someone from an ARV to check it over, make it safe, then get it bagged up for evidence.’ The policewoman moved away.

  Henry perched a cheek of his backside on the edge of the front wing of Danny’s damaged car. ‘There’s another thing,’ he said to FB. ‘The guy’s got previous for damaging police property.’

  ‘ How do you know that?’

  ‘ I recognise him, what’s left of him — the head, that is.’ Unusually, FB was lost for words. Danny swivelled, snatched her cigarette out and looked at Henry, awestruck.

  ‘ You recognise him! You didn’t tell me that,’ she said, almost stamping her feet.

  ‘ Yeah, well… you should know him, too,’ Henry told her. ‘Something we’ve already been talking about today. 1986 — remember?’

  ‘ We were talking about Billy Crane, weren’t we? That’s not him, is it?’

  FB’s ears pricked up at the mention of the name.

  ‘ No, it’s not,’ Henry said. ‘You mentioned you locked someone else up that night, didn’t you? A police dog bit him after he’d set fire to a few cop cars in the yard at Northgate.’

  ‘ You mean that’s..?’ She couldn’t remember his name. ‘But I’ve had a look. I didn’t recognise him.’

  ‘ It’s not that easy to recognise a head, especially when it’s been sliced off at the neck, flattened and bounced down the road like a football. Go and have another look,’ Henry suggested.

  ‘ I will.’ Danny walked towards the ambulance.

  FB stepped close to Henry and pointed at him thoughtfully.

  FB was one of the few ACCs in the country who had served in only one Force, having risen from PC to his present rank in Lancashire. He knew that if he aspired to become a Chief Constable he would need to do some ‘butterflying’ around a couple of other Forces, but for the present he was happy. Having remained in one Force, though, meant that he had a good knowledge of the villains operating in the county — pretty unusual for an ACC in the modern police service. He stuck his finger on Henry’s chest. ‘Billy Crane… correct me if I’m wrong… big time crim, operates mostly with small teams. He shot Terry Briggs, didn’t he?’ Henry nodded. ‘And he had an unusual MO, didn’t he?’ Henry nodded again.

  FB pulled his finger off Henry’s chest an
d sniffed. Slowly, he said, ‘He creates diversions.’

  ‘ Keeps the cops busy while he does his own business.’

  ‘ Such as blowing up police cars.’

  ‘ Or helicopters.’

  ‘ Sending bomb threats to Control Room. And also to the Comms Room at Lancaster police station.’ FB shook his head in wonderment. ‘Taking a risk doing that helicopter, though.’

  ‘ Tch,’ Henry guffawed. ‘How many operational cops are there at the dream factory likely to stop such a thing happening? How good is the security?’

  ‘ Point taken,’ FB conceded.

  ‘ Anything else been happening in the last hour that’s unusual?’

  ‘ Not that I know of.’

  Danny had reached the ambulance. She asked one of the paramedics if he would show her the severed head of the deceased, which had been put into a plastic bag and sealed. Hoping to make her jump, the paramedic picked it up from the floor of the ambulance and swung it towards her with a laugh. She did not respond, but shot the man a pitying glance and tilted the head up to the daylight. It was a very gruesome sight, floating in thick, setting blood, and she did feel slightly queasy, but maintained her composure. She peered closely at the features. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and returned to Henry and FB who were deep in conversation. They drew apart as she approached.

  ‘ You were right,’ Danny told Henry. ‘It’s Callum Riley, I remember his name now — the guy I arrested all those years ago. Not a pretty sight.’

  ‘ Never was,’ remarked Henry.

  FB turned on his heels and strutted away, fingering his chin, his decision-making process in action. Then he pirouetted and strode back. Henry and Danny watched him, wondering what masterplan was about to be unleashed.

  ‘ I want you to get into this now — something big could have happened somewhere in the county and when it comes in I want us to be ready for it. I want us to be ahead of the game — got me?’

  ‘ I’m off sick,’ Henry stated.

  ‘ In that case get yourself back on duty,’ FB ordered him. ‘You look all right to me.’

  ‘ And I’m working on the triple murder at Blackpool.’

  FB gave one of his deep, pissed-off sighs which seemed to beg the question, ‘Am I the only one committed here?’ ‘Not now you’re not, Doris,’ FB told Danny. ‘Now get on with it,’ he added quickly and walked away before Danny could respond to the jibe, ‘Doris’ being an old-fashioned, derogatory term for a policewoman.

  ‘ One day,’ she hissed through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll punch that bastard’s lights out.’

  Crane reversed the fully-laden Sherpa into the warehouse loading bay and Smith closed the roller doors. The Audi containing the other three drove into the warehouse through the smaller door. They all got out and bustled eagerly to the back doors of the Sherpa which Smith was unlocking.

  He opened them slowly, but with a flourish, and could not resist punching the air at the sight of all the money boxes.

  ‘ Brilliant!’ Gunk uttered enthusiastically. He lunged to grab one. Crane stepped in front of him, barring his way.

  ‘ Come on, let’s get ‘em opened,’ Gunk whined. ‘I want to see some dough.’

  ‘ No, not yet,’ Crane said quietly. ‘You start messing with these and an indelible coloured dye gets released all over the cash and you — which is neither use nor ornament to anybody. You’ll be walking around with a pink head for months and no one’ll touch the cash. They need to be opened properly.’

  He pushed Gunk back, not in any way worried by Gunk’s powerful body and mean temper. Crane knew he could deal with Gunk, no problem.

  ‘ Don? How long?’ Crane asked Smith.

  ‘ He’ll be here in half an hour — so in the meantime I suggest we all get changed and showered in the bogs back there. Get the clothing back into the plastic bags, get all the weapons and ammo together, then let’s chill out.’

  ‘ Shit!’ said Thompson irritably. He too was fired up by the sight of all that money, so near, yet so far.

  ‘ He’s right,’ Drozdov agreed with Crane. ‘Let the expert do it when he arrives. We’ve come this far. Waiting another half hour will not do us harm.’

  FB revelled in his rank. He loved strutting around Headquarters, barking at people, ordering them around and being generally unpleasant. He was not a people person, but a hard taskmaster who pushed himself even harder than his subordinates. But such power and drive did have its upside because within minutes of returning to HQ, FB had turfed a handful of Human Resource managers out of a room they had been using for a meeting in the LEC building adjacent to Headquarters and declared it to be the hub of Operation Head Hunt — the first name that sprang to his whirling mind.

  Henry and Danny looked on rather shamefacedly as the HR managers collected their belongings and shuffled out, shooed along by FB with words and phrases like, ‘Too many bloody meetings these days anyway,’ and ‘Not enough focus on operational policing,’ and ‘I’m not even sure what you lot do, anyway.’

  They left bristling with annoyance. FB basked in their reactions.

  When they were gone, the ACC turned to the two detectives.

  ‘ Down to you,’ he said, and left.

  ‘ Thanks a fucking bunch,’ Henry said to himself. He sat down heavily, no enthusiasm in him at all. He examined the room. The LEC–Local Emergency Centre — building is a single-storey construction, consisting of a series of rooms which, in the event of a large-scale disaster, incident or emergency, would be staffed by the relevant people from the Police, Fire and Ambulance Services, together with representatives from other agencies. It is geared up to handle such an occurrence in terms of communications and facilities. In between times, the rooms are used by whoever needs them, for whatever purpose — such as an HR managers’ meeting.

  Two phones were already installed, together with a fax machine. Points for dozens of others to be put in were available. Flipcharts and dry-wipe boards were dotted around the room.

  Henry picked up one of the phones and spoke to the Duty Officer in Control Room. His staff were now back in place following the bomb alert. Henry informed him of his presence and function in the LEC and asked him to forward any information which might be of relevance — particularly reports of large-scale crime in the county.

  Coffee and tea were brought into the room. Henry poured himself a large black coffee and sipped it ruminatively while he tried to clear his thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly over the last hour and a half — from the emotional outburst aimed at Danny, to the explosion, to the decapitation, to this: running an Incident Room when there hadn’t even been an incident, a Non-incident Room, perhaps. Ridiculous. It was all assumptions and guesses.

  He sighed. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ He picked up a marker pen and went to one of the dry-wipe boards on the wall. He rubbed it clean with the side of his fist. ‘Other than nothing,’ he added.

  ‘ Three things to start with: the hoax calls to Control Room and Lancaster Comms. Then the explosion.’

  He began to write.

  ‘ Callum Riley, a gun,’ Danny prompted. ‘Riley’s previous convictions, linked to Billy Crane’s MO.’

  ‘ And I’ve seen Crane recently. He has connections with Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick, two Manchester thugs, and a Russian guy, Drozdov, an active member of the Russian Mafia.’ Henry scribbled the names up, as well as Don Smith’s. He looked at what he’d written. ‘But it’s all conjecture and doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘ Yet.’

  Henry shrugged — a gesture which was starting to annoy Danny intensely. All it said to her was, ‘I don’t care’ — a defeatist attitude which was not Henry at all. It reminded her starkly that she and he had unfinished personal business to attend to.

  ‘ What else have we got?’ she thought out loud, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice.

  ‘ Nothing.’ Henry sat down, looking like he was bored rigid.

  ‘ Give that to me.’ Danny snatched the
marker pen from his hand. She stood by the board, reading what was on it, then reached up and wrote, Operation Head Hunt along the top, but knew the name would have to be changed. It was completely inappropriate, just the kind of thing she would have expected from FB. She underlined the words with a squiggle. Then she drew a ring around the words ‘Lancaster Comms’.

  ‘ Why Lancaster Comms?’ she probed Henry and the room.

  ‘ Why not Blackburn? Why not Blackpool?’

  Henry remained dumb, uninterested.

  ‘ Come on,’ she urged, ‘we’re supposed to be detectives. We’re supposed to come up with things. Ideas. Hypotheses.’

  ‘ Yeah, I’m sorry.’ He rocked forwards and stood up. ‘There should be a map of the county in one of these cupboards.’ He opened a few until he found a large rolled-up map which he spread open on a table-top. He pinned it down with two cups and two saucers. He took another marker pen and drew a ring around Lancaster and another around Hutton, location of Headquarters.

  Danny sidled up next to him, arm to arm.

  ‘ What’ve we got?’ he said. ‘Lancaster: covers the port of Heysham, two nuclear power stations, Glasson Dock, the Duke of Westminster’s house, the M6, one or two MPs’ and ex-MPs’ homes; Royals visit the area regularly — officially and unofficially. There’s lots of banks, building societies, and other financial institutions in the towns.’

  ‘ And Control Room,’ said Danny, picking up the train of thought, ‘Controls the Force radio network and deploys patrols on the motorways — the M6, M55, M65 and M61.’

  ‘ Common denominator?’

  ‘ The M6,’ said Danny quickly. ‘That’s the first thing that strikes me. It runs through Northern Division and Control Room look after it.’