The Last Big Job (20 page)

‘
It’s been a good break, lots achieved,’ Crane
said.

They shook hands, patted each other’s shoulders.

‘
I’ll do some digging on Hodge,’ Smith said, ‘then I’ll be out
to see you in a couple of days. I know a guy who can do it for me,
discreet like. Someone who’s good.’

‘
Fine, but remember this - I haven’t said I’m in this for
definite. I’m just sniffing a dog’s arse at the moment, that’s
all,’

The departures screen rolled out instructions for the Lisbon
flight: passengers to make their way to the boarding gate now. The
two men parted and anyone observing them would not have been able
to guess from their demeanour that both had been involved in murder
only hours before.

Because of his dislike of airports, the Russian left it to the
very last minute before arriving and checking in at Manchester. He
walked briskly away from the BA check-in desk towards Passport
Control, dropped his hand luggage on to the conveyor belt which
trundled it through the X-ray machine, stepped through the metal
detector without incident, collected his bag and presented his
passport to the Customs official at the desk. The document received
only the most cursory of glances. He might as well have offered his
real one. Once in the International Departure lounge he turned into
W.H. Smiths and bought a morning newspaper which he tucked under
his arm and made his way to the boarding gate.

He stepped on to the first travellator at exactly the same
time as another man of much the same age and build as himself. They
ignored each other. The Russian stepped slightly ahead and came off
at Gate 21.

Billy Crane carried on towards Gate 33.

At the boarding gate, the Russian was slightly aggrieved to
see there was a delay of a few minutes on the Paris flight. He
chuntered and sat down to read his newspaper, annoyed that he was
actually sitting in an airport and not touring naval dockyards on
the south coast as planned. But that was the nature of his
occupation. He was very much in demand, well paid for what he did
and never turned anything down.

After dealing so publicly with Jacky Lee, he had contacted his
masters in Russia to report back. They were very pleased. Before he
could tell them he was going to have a short break, he was
instructed to get to Paris as soon as possible. He was given
sketchy details of where and what the job entailed, and told that
he would be properly briefed on his arrival in the city. He almost
refused, but the lure of a quarter of a million dollars and the
assurance that it would be a simple, straightforward hit swung
it.

Which is how he came to be at Manchester Airport. If he had to
travel by air, he chose provincial airports where
appropriate.

In just over ninety minutes he would be in Paris.

Eight hours after that, he expected to be on a train heading
south.

He laid out the newspaper on his knees, thought back to the
Jacky Lee assassination.

It had gone well. Publicly as requested. Everything had
slotted neatly into place. Timings, everything. The Russian closed
his eyes and tilted his head back, working through the scenario
moment by moment. Then his forehead furrowed. His heart blipped.
Something had not gone quite right - but he could not place his
finger on exactly what.

His brain rewound. He went through it all again. Pulling up,
entering the transport cafe, seeing Lee, killing Lee, the getaway
... the tense moment when Lee’s business partner pointed a gun at
the speeding car but did not fire. . . then he was away. The car
had been destroyed. All very smooth.

Except for ... he wracked his brains. Two things now. Yes,
the more he thought deeply about it,
why
didn’t Lee’s partner shoot? The
Russian found that very suspicious. And the stance the man had
taken with the gun. A professional stance. The Russian opened his
eyes. Maybe the guy had been a cop!

‘
British Airways flight to Paris, now boarding at Gate 21,’
came the Tannoy announcement.

It was a possibility. The Russian folded his newspaper and
joined the quickly formed queue.

As he handed over his boarding card, that other niggle, the
one he could not quite pinpoint came to him in a sickening lurch.
It had been the moment in the transport cafe when he had warned off
Jacky Lee’s friend.

‘
Stop - get back!’ he had warned.

No problem in that, except for one thing. In the heat of the
battle he had reverted for a split second to his mother tongue. He
had uttered the words in Russian.

‘
Thank you,’ he said politely, taking back the boarding card
minus the stub from the steward.

He cursed inwardly. Slips like that could become fatal
ones.

It would never happen again.

Danny glanced up from the work on her desk and blinked. Her
mouth fell open, stunned. For a fleeting moment, she hardly
recognised Henry.

For a start, his hair had been trimmed very closely to his
skull. Maybe a ‘number two’, at the very least a ‘number three’
cut. He was unshaven and the stubble was probably three days old.
His eyes looked tired and a little sunken. Lots of late nights,
possibly. He was slimmer and trimmer than he had ever been. The
paunch had all but gone and his upper chest and shoulders were
broader and firmer, like he’d been pumping iron. With a light tan,
too. His leather-look reefer jacket was slung casually over his
shoulder, he was wearing a pale blue pique polo shirt and
twin-pleated Chinos in slate with black, plain-fronted Doc Martens
completing the effect.

Danny gulped in admiration. He looked dynamite and she
experienced a little thrill of pleasure deep down.

‘
The spy who came in from the cold,’ she gasped.

‘
Danny,’ he nodded with a boy-like grin, ‘how’s it
going?’

‘
Ultra-busy as usual.’

‘
I’m just on my way home. Thought I’d pop in on the
way.’

She allowed her eyes to traverse him from head to toe. ‘You
look good,’ she said hoarsely, approvingly.

‘
You too. Slim.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘
Hey, Henry, how the hell are you?’ a detective called from
across the office.

Henry gave a short wave. ‘Good.’ His eyes returned to Danny.
‘Time for a brew? Chat?’

‘
How about some animal-like sex?’ she wanted to ask, but
restrained her thoughts. ‘Yeah, definitely.’ She grabbed her PR and
followed Henry up the stairs to the dining room, her eyes at his
butt-level. She could not help but noticing that it looked tight,
good enough to sink her teeth into.

Two planes taxied in tandem out to the runway. The Paris
flight, followed by the Lisbon one. They were in the air within a
minute of each other, only a few miles separating them as they cut
south through British airspace.

The Russian relaxed, prepared himself for a quick in-flight
snack. He had now carried out his internal debrief on the Lee
killing and put his mistake behind him. There was no point in
dwelling on it. It was doubtful whether there would be any
consequence from it. He adjusted his mind to the next task and
beyond that to what would definitely be a holiday.

In the plane a few miles behind, the figure of Billy Crane was
also relaxed. He too had considered the last few days of his life
and was pretty pleased about the way it had panned out. He was sure
his stay in Lancashire had gone unreported to the cops and he was
not particularly worried that he would be caught for the killings.
He was confident of Don Smith’s abilities to plug holes wherever
necessary. Crane was now mulling over Colin Hodge’s proposition,
wondering how - or if - he was going to progress it or
not.

If things checked out, the probable answer would be
yes.

That said, the timescale was very tight. According to Hodge,
the next such collection was only three weeks away. To pull it all
together and execute it in twenty-one days would be a real tester.
Things would have to move very quickly indeed.

Of course, fifty million pounds - if that was to be believed -
was a very effective motivator.

He smiled at the stewardess when she offered him a drink. He
caught a glint in her eye and he thought that maybe the stopover in
Lisbon could be very interesting.

‘
The story was that you were drafted on to some hush-hush HQ
project, that you couldn’t be contacted directly and anything for
you should be channelled through FB’s office,’ Danny explained. She
felt absolutely wonderful to be sitting so close to Henry, their
knees touching under the table. She had missed him so much it
physically hurt her; she wanted him so much, that hurt too. Yet she
was acutely aware of her last encounter with a married man that had
ended very messily indeed.

‘
Yeah, I know,’ Henry said. He sounded distracted, but brought
himself back on line. ‘Truth is, I’ve been working undercover. I
can’t tell you the details, but it ended somewhat shit-shaped, to
say the least.’

‘
So you’re back then, are you?’ Danny tried to keep the hope
out of her voice.

‘
No, not exactly. Just a few days’ break, then I go back U/C.’
He ran a hand down his tired face, then interlocked his fingers in
front of him. Danny touched the back of his hand with the tip of
her forefinger. A tingle shimmied down her spine.

‘
You look tired.’

Again, Henry’s mind had wandered. Danny could see he wasn’t
concentrating totally on her. It miffed her a little. Then his eyes
focused. ‘Danny,’ he said with a click of his tongue, ‘can I bounce
something off you - you being a close friend?’

A close friend! ‘Yes, sure.’

‘
Me and Kate parted on acrimonious terms. She was dead against
me going back to Crime Squad work. . .’ He then related his sorry
tale of woe. Danny listened intently and offered advice from her
perspective, much against what she was really feeling. What she
wanted to say was, ‘Ditch the bitch and hop into my sack.’ She
didn’t, hid her disappointment and tried to give Henry some
options. It was obvious he did not see Danny as a possible; he was
too deeply in love with Kate and very distraught by his marital
predicament.

‘
I just seem to cock it up all the time,’ he whined. ‘If it’s
not my pants coming off, it’s work. I’m such a selfish bastard.
Sometimes I think I should jack the job in, buy a newsagent’s or an
off-licence, or something and live over the business, then I’d be
really tied down.’

‘
Bad idea. If nothing else, you’re too good a cop for that,
Henry.’

The two planes remained in tandem until the Paris flight
veered east, whilst the Lisbon flight continued to fly almost due
south. No one on either of the flights knew anyone on the other
flight and although the two planes were never near to a collision,
the two men, Crane and the Russian, were soon to be on a personal
collision course which would end in bloody violence.

‘
Danny?’ A Detective Constable literally swung into the
canteen on the upright door jamb, looking very excited.
‘
Got
a good ‘un. Three bodies in a vehicle inspection pit - and
they didn’t get into it willingly. Can you turn out and cover the
scene? Like I said, looks a cracker.’

‘
Be right there.’ She looked at Henry, desperate to kiss
him.

‘
Duty calls.’

‘
Want me to come?’

‘
Nah, I’m a big girl now. You go home and take my advice -
give Kate an old-fashioned night of
passion, OK? It works wonders, the orgasm. It does with me,
anyway...’

Chapter Eight

The flattening of the rank structure in the police service,
together with the philosophy (some say misguided) of pushing more
and more responsibility downwards, means that quite often the most
senior rank available to attend serious incidents is a Sergeant. As
Danny alighted from the CID car, she was aware that the eyes of all
the Constables were on her because she was top banana at the scene.
The situation did not faze her. Firstly because she had a lot of
years’ experience behind her and could bullshit her way through
anything; secondly because sooner or later the job would be taken
away from her as higher-ranking detectives started to crawl out of
the woodwork and the SIO team leaped into action.

What she had to do was ensure the scene was managed properly,
that evidence was preserved - and not destroyed by a procession of
size 10’s - that everything was properly documented and she didn’t
show her arse.

She scrunched out the cigarette she had been smoking, took
things slowly and made sure her eager beaver detectives did not
rush her.

Firstly she looked at the outside of the premises.

It was a garage. One of those one- or two-man operations
found in back streets or on small industrial estates and the
like.
Peter’s Motor’s
was the miss-spelt name on the hand-painted sign. There was
one big sliding door - closed - next to which was a normalsized
door - open. Adjacent to the building was a small tarmacked area
with a sign, again hand-painted, which read
MOT/Repair’s only.
A couple of old
bangers were parked thereon.