The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ Don!’ he gasped.

  Smith’s eyes pleaded with his partner. Then there was a dull ‘thu-thu-thu’ of bullets being sprayed from the Uzi. Smith’s head exploded with their impact.

  And Crane was able to pinpoint Drozdov’s position behind the BMW and took advantage of the distraction.

  He ran low and fast towards the Sherpa and dropped into the loading bay, putting the Sherpa between himself and Drozdov.

  Drozdov loosed off a lazy burst towards the Sherpa, the shells smacking into the side panel of the vehicle, making a sound like hailstone.

  Crane rolled towards the front of the Sherpa, getting more protection from the engine block. He was tempted to return fire, but it would have been useless, just a gesture, nothing more. He had little ammunition and needed to save it for critical incidents — when he had a good chance of taking Drozdov’s life.

  The stench of cordite hung heavily in the atmosphere. Smith’s body lay grotesquely positioned in the puddle of his blood, coagulating like tar, his head destroyed. Beyond him, Crane could just see Gunk underneath the filing cabinet, his head a gory mess too and though he too was dead, his mouth popped open and closed repeatedly, like a fish.

  Nothing had happened for at least a minute. Maybe longer, maybe not. Time had lost its substance.

  Crane was convinced Drozdov had not moved, was still behind the BMW He was reluctant to make the first move because he didn’t want it to go to rat-shit and be his last. Yet to have to react to Drozdov could be fatal. From what Crane knew of the Russian Mafia, shoot-outs like this were ten a penny in Moscow and people like Drozdov were experienced in dealing with such situations. Conversely, Crane’s shoot-outs had always tended to be one-sided. His opponents were not usually armed, which was a big advantage. This was a new scenario for Crane, but he wasn’t fazed by it. It was like a game of chess — but with consequences.

  He was squatting down by the front offside wheel of the Sherpa, close to the driver’s door, taking his main cover from the engine. He knew car panels were useless against bullets and had known people die behind them, thinking they were safe. The front of the vehicle faced the roller door and the operating panel was on the wall, about five feet above ground. The control button was ten feet away from Crane himself.

  A grimace creased his face as he weighed up the possibility of doing a runner. The keys were still in the ignition. All he needed to do was open the door, get in and drive away with the money.

  Yeah, sure. Dream on.

  The roller door would take an eon to open and Sherpa vans were notoriously bad at quick starts.

  Stalemate.

  ‘ You did what I would have done. I respect that,’ Drozdov called out from behind the BMW ‘We can talk. I know there is far more money than you led us to believe. We can split it. We are businessmen, after all.’

  ‘ You killed my friend, Jacky Lee.’

  ‘ You butchered my colleagues.’

  ‘ Big difference,’ Crane shouted. ‘Fucking big difference.’

  ‘ And you would have killed me.’

  ‘ Likewise, wanker.’

  ‘ Such is life. It is not easy, but we can negotiate. I am a man of my word.’

  ‘ Ivan the fuckin’ Terrible. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could spit. I smelled you for trouble as soon as I saw you.’

  ‘ I’m honoured. So what is it to be? Sit here until we grow old and die of natural causes — or do we compromise? Remember, you are outgunned and out-positioned. I can be a very poor shot with this Uzi and yet still mow you down; you have to be a marksman with a pistol. Compromise, Billy Crane — a good word — a very good offer.’

  Crane looked at the Ruger. The Russian was right. It is very difficult to be accurate with a pistol other than at very close range, whereas it’s dead easy with a machine pistol set on automatic. Aiming did not come into it. Point, pull, shoot, sweep, kill.

  In that case, Crane decided, I’ll have to get in close to the bastard.

  He reached up with his right hand for the driver’s door handle which he gripped firmly and pressed quietly with his thumb.

  There was a click which seemed loud and echoey, but drew no response from Drozdov. The door opened a quarter of an inch. Crane released the handle and eased his fingertips under the bottom edge of the door and pulled it slowly open. All the while he was expecting a hail of fire from Drozdov, but nothing came; he assumed the Russian was either squatting down behind the BMW and not looking, or was manoeuvring his way round for a better shot. Whatever, Crane knew his time was limited. When the door was open wide enough, he reached up towards the key in the ignition in the steering column, just behind the wheel. His idea was to try to see if the engine would start and use the noise as a distraction to cover the sound of any movement. He just had to hope the thing would get going without use of the gas pedal because he could not safely contort himself to turn the key with one hand and dab the accelerator with the other. Climbing up and sitting in the driver’s seat was obviously out of the question.

  Crane turned the key. The engine coughed, died.

  ‘ Shit!’

  He was about to try again when Drozdov stood up and sprayed a line of bullets in to the Sherpa, sending Crane diving back behind the engine block.

  Not a good idea, he thought, as the sound of gunfire died away. If nothing else it would be folly to put the Sherpa at risk from damage by bullets. If one hit something vital, he would be struggling to transport the money — if he came out of this alive.

  He controlled his breathing again. The only way to win this, he decided, was to take direct action. He had to take the fight to the Russian.

  Crane checked the Ruger again, making damn sure there was one ready in the chamber and that the magazine was full. Yes, on both counts.

  He leaned back against the front wheel and inhaled deep, slow breaths, calming himself, thinking of tactics.

  The only way he could imagine taking the Russian was by a sudden, unexpected, frontal assault, using the element of surprise and, if necessary, going out in a blaze of glory.

  His wet right hand gripped the handle of the gun. The sweaty tip of his forefinger curled around the trigger. He cupped his left hand underneath his right and lifted the gun. 32 oz seemed very heavy.

  Before he moved, he visualised every step of the way in his mind’s eye. First, the relative positions of the vehicles. He imagined he was a bird, looking down, seeing the layout from above. The Sherpa in the loading bay, the Audi in the warehouse, almost parallel to it and in front of that, skewed at an angle, the big BMW behind which Drozdov was taking cover. What was on the floor that might trip him? Crane thought hard. Nothing, he could recall nothing. Then he began to envision his course of action, frame by frame. Up on to his feet — then into a roll which would take him the ten feet or so to the rear of the Audi, and on the way loosing off two shots to keep Drozdov’s head down. Once behind the Audi, no pause. Dive fast and low towards the BMW, somewhere in the region of the rear nearside wheel. Down to the floor and fire underneath the car to take out Drozdov’s feet and legs and arse if he happened to be sitting on it, using every last bullet in the gun to do as much damage to the bastard as possible.

  He counted down from five.

  On ‘one’ he came to life and moved, twisting across the front of the Sherpa and suddenly seeing that the gap between that vehicle and the Audi was wider than he remembered. As he threw himself into the dive which would become his roll, this reality hit him and he knew he would be exposed twice as long as he intended.

  ‘ Bam! Bam!’ He fired his planned two shots and launched himself, hit the ground hard, jarring his left shoulder and morphed what should have been a single forward roll into a double.

  Drozdov reacted immediately, rising and raking the blurred figure of Crane with fire from the Uzi, but all the while shooting just a fraction behind him — until Crane disappeared behind the Audi and half a dozen of Drozdov’s slugs slammed into the tough, Teutonic bodywork.

&
nbsp; The gunfire was deafening. But Crane still managed to hear the metallic click of the hammer on the empty chamber and the muted curse from Drozdov’s lips as the Uzi dried up. A competent gunman would have the new magazine slotted in within seconds. Crane had no illusions that the Russian was anything less than competent, but at the same time knew that the moment had come and he had to grab it, or die.

  He scrambled to his feet, his toes losing purchase on the concrete floor for a precious moment before they gripped. He ran across to the BMW veered around to it far side, handgun ready to fire. He found the Russian leaning against the car, fumbling to ram in the new magazine.

  Drozdov, magazine in his right hand, useless Uzi in his left, stopped instantly and looked up at the menacing figure of Billy Crane. He held up the separate parts with a shrug and a smile of resignation and hurled them at Crane, crabbing away backwards.

  Crane dodged the metal. He aimed deliberately at the retreating Russian and pulled the trigger six times, blasting 9mm holes into his chest and stomach until Drozdov lay there without moving, probably dead.

  Crane stood over him like a Colossus and put another two into his head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was midnight. Danny emerged from her bathroom smelling of Johnson’s body wash. She had a robe wrapped tightly around her and was rubbing her short hair with a hand towel. She felt refreshed after the shower. It had been a long day. She went into the back bedroom and settled down to dry her hair at the dressing table.

  A curiously pleasant feeling came over her as she went downstairs into the lounge and drew the curtains. She switched on a couple of table lamps, keeping the lighting subdued, and inserted a CD into the stereo and waited for the first track to start playing. The serene, deep and uplifting music of Ladysmith Black Mambazo filtered out of the speakers and sent a tingle down her spine. It was wonderful, atmospheric stuff and Danny hated herself for not discovering it many years before. She adjusted the volume so it was just right to fill the room, yet not intrusive or overpowering, then wandered into the kitchen.

  She opened the new fridge and poured an ice-cold glass of Chablis and found an unopened tube of Pringles in a cupboard. Before leaving the kitchen she hesitated at the door, looking around. A half-smile came to her face. She thought, Good. He’s not here any more. Jack Sands has gone.

  Back in the lounge, she flopped down on to the settee, legs stretched out, glass of wine within arm’s reach on the coffee table. She leaned back and fed a few crisps into her mouth, followed by a few slurps of wine. Then it was time to light up. Although she was breaking a rule — never to smoke in the house — Danny didn’t give a toss. The first drag of the B amp;H Special felt so-o-o good.

  She relaxed and closed her eyes, about to review the day in her mind. It had been unusual and eventful — extraordinary, even — but before she could begin to dissect it, the front doorbell chimed. At first Danny thought she was hearing things. She hit the mute button on the stereo remote… then it chimed again. She shot bolt upright. It was ten after midnight. Who the hell could be calling at this hour? Her stomach churned.

  Suspiciously she got to her feet, sliding them into her fluffy slippers. She was not happy answering the door at this time of night. In the hallway she stood behind the front door, hand hovering over the panic alarm button.

  ‘ Who is it?’ she called.

  ‘ Henry Christie.’

  She exhaled and slid the chain off, drew back the two bolts and unlocked the double mortice.

  ‘ What are you doing here?’ She eyed him from the light of the hallway and the security light set above the door. He looked tired and unshaven. His eyes were deep in their sockets, his skin pale, loose

  … ill-looking.

  ‘ Sorry… sorry to bother you,’ he stuttered. Danny could smell booze on Henry’s breath, though he clearly wasn’t drunk. ‘I want to explain something to you. I need to apologise for the way I was earlier. Can I come in?’

  Danny waved her visitor to a seat in the lounge. She sat on the settee and curled her legs up underneath her, tucking her robe in tightly. Henry took a sip from the can of lager she had given him. The sip became a gulp and lasted until half the can had gone down.

  He wiped his mouth. ‘What a day!’

  Danny agreed with a gentle nod. It certainly had been one to remember, right from her disagreement with Henry to the very real possibility of a big crime having been committed somewhere in the north of the county. She and Henry had stayed on duty until 10 p.m. killing time, waiting for something to come in. Just as they decided to cal it a day, a phone call came through to their little incident room from Control Room: Staffordshire Police had contacted Lancashire to say that a security company based down there had reported that one of their vans had not completed its journey. It had been carrying twenty-odd million pounds in used notes.

  Danny was the one who had taken the call. She felt the pit virtually drop out of her stomach at the news. This had to be it. She asked the Control Room Inspector to fax a copy of the message to the incident room ASAP, which he did.

  She and Henry read it together as it churned out.

  ‘ Could well be the one,’ Henry said, the corners of his mouth turning down. ‘Until the van turns up, or the people inside it, we won’t know for sure. I know it says Staffs have circulated obs for the vehicle, but I think we should reinforce it with another message to all our police stations and ask Control Room to circulate details a few times over the air tonight.’ He studied the fax again. ‘Get some bobbies round to check the addresses of the drivers, see what that turns up too. They’re all Lancashire ones. That’s probably all we can do for now, other than to give FB a quick ring and keep him informed. We’d better keep him sweet, otherwise he’ll have our guts for garters.’

  Danny arranged to have these instructions carried out. When finished, Henry said, ‘Let’s go home.

  They left Headquarters separately in their own cars. Danny did not expect to see Henry again until the next morning. Yet here he was, looking very much the worse for wear.

  She smiled sweetly at him. ‘If I get a chance tomorrow, I’d like to get some estimates for the repairs to my car, and let my insurance company know.’

  ‘ Yeah, I don’t have a problem with that.’

  For a few long moments they did not speak. Ladysmith Black Mambazo moved into the haunting ‘Love I’ve Come to You’. They listened to it together. Danny’s eyes looked softly at Henry.

  ‘ Why have you come here?’ she asked gently.

  Henry had another swig of the lager as though he was avoiding answering the question. He rolled the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. ‘I suppose I was completely pissed off at myself for the way I behaved earlier. I wanted to say sorry. I was out of order.’

  ‘ You had a right to be upset. After all, I was meddling. I should have checked it all out first.’

  ‘ I overreacted.’

  ‘ It’s OK, Henry.’ Danny watched him carefully. He stared blankly into the middle distance, licking his lips. His breathing seemed to become laboured. He touched a hand to his forehead and emitted a short gasp from the back of his throat, then gritted his teeth. His eyes evaded hers. His lips started to tremble slightly and his shoulders rose and fell. He wiped his eyes with the thumb and finger of his left hand, shaking his head angrily at the same time. Danny could see he was wrestling with himself, that he was in turmoil. She put her wine glass down and sat up.

  ‘ Was is it, Henry?’ She thought back to his extended visit to Occupational Health that very morning and also his wasted, fleshy appearance coupled with mood swings and his inability to concentrate. She did the sums in her mind and came up with the dreaded answer. Henry had cancer. ‘Are you unwell?’ she probed, stomach tingling, fearing the response. His actual answer threw her completely off-balance.

  ‘ I’ve had all the tests and there’s no trace of infection, thank God. And that’s a miracle, that is.’ His face set firm, then he closed his eyes and tilted
his head backwards. ‘I haven’t told Kate. I haven’t told anyone, to be honest — but I think Terry has a good idea.’ His head dropped forwards and he looked straight at Danny.

  ‘ I’ve been raped,’ he admitted and started to cry.

  The CD had finished playing. Danny was kneeling in front of Henry. He was leaning into her and she had embraced him for the last twenty minutes, feeling utterly useless, murmuring words which meant nothing, but sounded reassuring… and all the while he had cried. Sometimes his body had shaken with huge, bone-jarring tremors; other times he was in control, but basically he cried, moaned and wailed and poured out huge tears like a baby.

  Now the big crying had subsided. He had become motionless and his breathing was more controlled. Danny kept her arms wrapped around him and his forehead rested on her shoulder. Her cool hand was on his neck, gently massaging. At last, she thought, I’ve got hold of Henry Christie… but for all the wrong reasons. Yet she felt deeply emotional and was on the verge of breaking down herself. He’s come to me, she thought. I’m the one he’s told. But even as these words filtered through her mind, she thought, Whoa! Big, BIG responsibility. What the hell am I going to do with this? Where is it likely to end? What does he want from me?

  Henry sat up slowly, wiped his face. He was totally wrecked. The skin around his eyes was blotchy and puffed-up.

  ‘ I’m sorry,’ he burbled. ‘You don’t need this, not with the Jack Sands thing as well. This is unfair. I’d better go.’ He made to stand.

  Danny’s arms were still around him. She held on and did not let him move. Their faces were only inches apart. She looked squarely into his eyes and made a decision. ‘Don’t go,’ she whispered. ‘You were there for me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I cried on you. You even cleaned up the mess for me. You never ducked and you never quit on me when I needed someone. So I’m here for you now, Henry.’ She smiled brightly. ‘After all, fair’s fair. What are friends for?’