The Last Big Job (11 page)

The Russian made good progress after leaving Warwick. He
skirted around Birmingham to join the M6 with surprisingly little
delay and kept travelling north, up into Lancashire, remaining
constantly vigilant.

His next stop was at Lancaster motorway services, northbound,
at Forton. Here he employed the same checking procedure as at
Warwick, and once again saw no one, heard nothing to rouse his
suspicion. He used the toilets, had a quick cup of tea and a
sandwich and returned to his car. Deciding it was about time he
inspected his hardware, he opened the boot and pulled back the
spare wheel cover. Inside the hub of the wheel was a plastic
package bound by elastic bands. The Russian removed the package,
re-covered the spare and slammed the boot shut.

Without opening the package, he slid it underneath the front
passenger seat. A few minutes later, after refuelling - cash only -
he was back on the motorway, coming off at the next junction 33 -
where he joined the A6, back-tracked a couple of miles south
towards Garstang and found a quiet lay-by.

Here he unwrapped the package and peered inside. He was
reassured to see he had been provided with what he had requested.
Firstly, the American Arms Spectre auto loading pistol, 9mm,
thirty-shot magazine capacity with one extra in the chamber;
six-inch barrel, 72 oz in weight, adjustable sights with a blue
finish. Secondly a Browning BDM pistol, 9mm, capacity of fifteen
plus one, with a 4.73-inch barrel, adjustable sights and, again, a
blue finish. Spare magazines were also included. He folded the
package and replaced it under the seat.

Jacky Lee’s apartment was bright and beige, spotless and
huge, typical of the kind of place inhabited by wealthy criminals
without any specific taste in furniture, fittings, or art. Its
immense size struck Henry as soon as he stepped out of the lift. It
was his first time up here and he was impressed. In
the dim, distant past, Henry had been to Lee’s
family home, a farmhouse in the Northumbrian countryside which
Jacky shared with his wife and kids.

At this moment, though, Lee was obviously not thinking too
deeply about his wife. He was sitting at a smoked-glass-topped
dining table dressed in a very short towelling robe which rode up
to the top of his thighs. Henry hoped he was wearing underpants.
Lee was stuffing a croissant into his mouth. Directly opposite him
sat a stunning-looking woman with a wide, oval face, attired in an
equally revealing robe sagging open at her chest, showing a deep
cleavage. Henry thought she would have looked wonderful in just
about anything.

‘
Hey, Frank, you cunt!’ Lee shouted through his mouthful. ‘Get
in here.’ He flapped his fingers at a spare chair at the
table.

Henry slid off his jacket and tossed it over a coffee-table.
He walked across the apartment, noting the view of the canal basin
was tremendous now that it had been developed. He plonked himself
confidently down on the chair and picked up a cup which he reckoned
to wipe clean with his fingers. He reached for the coffee in a jug
on a hot plate.

Lee wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘
Mornin’ Jacky,’ Henry said. It was actually a minute after
noon. He nodded at the woman and was caught briefly - stunningly -
by the flash of her wonderful wide brown eyes. ‘Hi,’ he said. He
was already searingly jealous of Jacky Lee.

‘
This is Natasha,’ Lee said. He looked Henry squarely in the
eye. ‘And if you even think of laying a finger on her, you’ll have
to answer to me.’ He laughed coldly.

‘
The thought would never even enter my head,’ Henry reassured
him, feeling uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t
there. However, as Frank Jagger, he didn’t give a shit. Women were
merely appendages in Jagger’s world. Something to be used and
discarded. Something to have hanging from your arm. The prettier
and dumber the better - but he guessed that Natasha was far from
dumb.

Henry took a drink of coffee, his eyes playing over the rim of
the big breakfast cup at Lee and his lady friend, wondering how he
had allowed himself to be dragged into this game again.

He had only himself to blame. Two and a half months earlier
he had been operating as a Divisionally based Detective Inspector
in charge of reactive CID operations at Blackpool. He was a busy
man. Sorting out the messy suicide of fellow DI
Jack Sands as well as the aftermath of the murder of a
paedophile, together with the escape from custody of a dangerous
child murderer called Louis Vernon Trent who had consistently
outmanoeuvred the police in their efforts to recapture him. And
lots of other things. It was all fairly easy, undemanding work for
a detective of his calibre, well within his
capabilities.

Then, out of the blue, he got a call to attend Headquarters to
see the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert
Fanshaw-Bayley. It had actually been Fanshaw-Bayley, known in short
as FB, who had summoned him personally by phone. Cagey and obtuse
as ever, he had refused to tell Henry what he wanted to see him
for. Just: ‘Get your arse across here now.’ FB was fondly regarded
for his way with words.

Annoyed, frustrated - and not a little worried - Henry had
done as bid. Summonses to parade on at HQ come few and far between.
Usually they are for promotion or bollocking. Henry knew he was not
going to be promoted ... and as he drove the twenty or so miles
from Blackpool to Headquarters, just to the south of Preston, his
heart was beating faster than it should have done. His mind kept
asking, ‘What have you done this time, Henry?’

He was spirited quickly through FB’s secretary’s office into
FB’s own palatial one, recently redecorated, overlooking the rugby
pitch. FB was sitting behind his desk, wallowing in his new leather
swivel chair. This was the man who, over the years, had caused
Henry some grief and heartache. Henry did not like him at all, but
suspected FB quite liked him in a perverted sort of way, although
he did not often show it and usually treated Henry like
shite.

On the other side of the desk was another man. Henry did not
recognise him immediately.

‘
Henry, what the fuck took you so long?’ FB said jovially and
bounced up to his feet. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Davison
from Greater Manchester Police.’

Henry shook the man’s hand, eyeing him uncertainly. Somewhere
in the depths of his mind there was a vague tinge of
familiarity.

‘
Used to be one of us until he deserted ship,’ FB
said.

‘
Ahh.’ Henry released Davison’s hand. ‘I thought I recognised
the face,’ he lied whitely. Actually he still had not placed
him.

‘
Our paths have crossed,’ Davison said worryingly.

‘
Tea? Coffee?’ FB asked Henry.

‘
Tea, please.’

FB pointed towards a spare chair. ‘Pull it up, sit down.’ He
intercommed his secretary and ordered the beverages, sat down and
leaned back, interlocking his fingers across his chest. He beamed
at Henry. ‘Isn’t this nice?’

‘
Er. . .’ Henry raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them and
shrugged his shoulders. Not promotion, didn’t look like a
bollocking. . . so what the hell was it? ‘What can I do for you,
sir?’

‘
Hang on, let’s get that brew first.’ On cue the office door
opened and FB’s secretary bumbled in bearing a tray.

‘
OK,’ said FB after his first sip of tea, ‘over to you,
Rupert.’

He nodded at Davison.

‘
Do the names Jacky Lee and Frank Jagger mean anything to
you?’ Davison asked Henry.

Henry’s guts churned loudly at the mention, making him wish
he’d had a bigger breakfast. His head dipped. ‘Jacky Lee is, or
was, a good-class villain from the North-East. Dealt in anything
going, mainly drugs and stolen booze and fags. He got put away in
1992 as a result of a chain of events kicked off by Frank Jagger.’
He paused. ‘I assume you know who Frank Jagger is?’ Henry’s
suspicious eyes flickered to FB and back again to Davison, who was
nodding.

‘
I’ll come straight to the point, Henry,’ Davison said with a
wide gesture indicating honesty. ‘Jacky Lee came out of prison in
1996 after serving four years of his eight-year sentence. He’s back
on the streets, back in business and as ruthless as ever. On his
release from prison he went back to Newcastle and wound down his
businesses there, then moved his whole operation across the
Pennines to Manchester, where he’s been up and running about
eighteen months now. He left his wife and kids there, by the
way.

‘
About two months ago we found a body floating in the ship
canal at Irlam, brains blown out. I am the Senior Investigating
Officer on the enquiry. Turns out the body was a Geordie called
Pasha, an Asian guy. We believe that Jacky Lee either killed, or
contracted somebody to kill him because Lee thought - wrongly as it
happens - that Pasha had grassed on him back in ‘92. We believe Lee
lured him down from Newcastle on some pretext of doing business and
murdered him. The word is now out on the streets that that is what
happens when you inform on Jacky Lee.

‘
Our problem, Henry, is that we can’t get close enough to
Lee,’ Davison said. Now Henry could see what was coming. ‘There’s
not even reasonable suspicion to arrest him for murder, and as far
as I’m concerned, all conventional methods have been tried and
failed and I’ve reached the point where I feel that the only way
forwards is to re-introduce our undercover officer.’ Once again,
Davison made an open gesture. This time it said, ‘Henry, you’re our
man for this dirty business.’

Rather like wanting to be a Firearms Officer earlier in his
career, the idea of becoming an undercover cop seemed like a good
one to Henry at the time. The reality, however, did not match the
macho dream, but by then it was too late. He was hobnobbing with
criminals and he was good at it.

Henry had been a detective on the Regional Crime Squad (as it
was then called) for about two years when he was asked if he had
ever considered undercover work as an option. The idea grew on him.
He’d already played the role of ‘test purchaser’ several times.
That involved him simply buying goods that were being offered for
sale by criminals, whether they be drugs or stolen property. He had
found the experience exhilarating and the more he thought about it,
the more he convinced himself undercover work was right up his
street.

After a rigorous selection procedure involving much
psychometric and psychological testing, as well as practical
exercises, he was chosen as the only one from thirty applicants to
go forward into the actual role.

Following a further two-week course with much input, the
first thing that happened to him was that he became two other
people as comprehensive deep-cover identities were thrashed out,
both going as far back as schooldays. In
the trade, these are known as legends.

The first of these legends was Frank Jagger. Henry had been
allowed to choose the name, something he had to feel comfortable
with. He picked Frank because that was his late father’s name and
Jagger because he was a sad die-hard Rolling Stones fan, sometimes
much to his embarrassment.

Next, together with a couple of detectives who were experts in
the field, he devised the background of the character, going all
the way back to his schooldays in Blackburn. With knowledge and
cooperation at the highest levels, bank accounts were opened, a
National Insurance number issued, a passport too; jobs which Jagger
had been in were manufactured; tax was paid - occasionally -
photographs were professionally touched up, and eventually, when
all these things, and more, were in place, all checkable and
traceable histories, Frank Jagger stepped out into a hostile world
as a wheeler-dealer travelling fence, operating right outside the
law. . . and one of his debut jobs was to put the first nail into
Jacky Lee’s coffin lid.

Lee was very high on the North-East Crime Squad’s target list
for nefarious activities, including drug dealing, extortion,
handling stolen property and pimping. All these activities were
facilitated by means of a chain of pubs and clubs around that area
of the country, and a few in Manchester. Every police operation
against Lee had failed and it was only then, after every option had
been tried, that Henry was brought in to bat. ‘U/Cs’, as they were
referred to, are always the last resort because of the simple fact
that every single day they are operating, their lives are at
risk.

Getting to know Lee was a slow process. It involved being
introduced to him by an informant who then took a step back. This
was the most dangerous stage of any undercover operation. Lee was
wary of all new faces, as most good-class crims are. But a slow
process it had to be. Rather like eating an elephant: one mouthful
at a time.

The occasional conversation led to an hour’s chat, from there
to a night out. Henry could feel himself being tested all the time.
The night out led to an evening meal at a Lee-owned restaurant
where the subject of business was eventually broached. That was
three months down the line. A period of time in which Henry had
seen little of his wife and daughters.

The first thing Henry did for Lee was to obtain a truckload of
stolen whisky for him. He sold it to Lee at £3 a bottle and Lee
subsequently sold it on through his outlets, making massive
profits. At least, Lee believed it was stolen. It was, in fact,
legally purchased from a distillery in Scotland at a knock -down
price, a transaction sanctioned with the full knowledge of the high
management of the distillery. This kept everything legal from
Henry’s point of view - a crucial consideration in the undercover
game, because the officer must never be compromised in the eyes of
the law.