The Last Big Job (22 page)

‘
You know him?’

‘
Of him.’

Crane nodded. ‘Get him to back off.’

‘
Should I pay him off?’

‘
No, just get him to tread water with Hodge for a
while.’

‘
Will do.’

‘
Are you sure Hodge isn’t a cop?’ Crane asked. He watched for
Smith’s reaction.

Smith breathed in deeply, held it in while he considered the
question, exhaled slowly. ‘How can I say for sure, Bill? I’ve had
him well checked out by this private detective I told you about,
and I reckon he’s done a pretty good job in such a short space of
time. He’s still on it, by the way.

‘
Cops have good legends, I admit. A lot of time and effort
goes into them, but I reckon Hodge is just an arsehole on the make,
a greedy cunt. He’s seen an opportunity and is going for it.’ Smith
looked out of the window. ‘Is he a cop, though?’ Then he sang, ‘How
can I be sure, in a world that’s constantly changing?’ The old
David Cassidy number.

It brought a smile to Crane’s face. ‘Yeah, right. OK then,
what about this being a set-up? Is it some kind of elaborate plot
to do us? He came to you and that worries me.’

‘
But only because Tony Roberts picked up on what Hodge was
saying around the clubs. I’m the one who followed it up. He didn’t
actually come to me.’

‘
Bluff, counter-bluff, falling into the trap,’ Crane offered
sagely.

‘
Could be, Billy, could be, but I doubt it. My gut tells me
that Colin Hodge is a genuine greedy, weak-kneed bastard who wants
to escape from a squalid little shitty life, like a million other
people. They just do the lottery instead.’

Crane watched the passing landscape for a while. He sniffed.
‘OK, let’s go with him - but keep our eyes and ears well
pinned.’

A smile of satisfaction came to Smith’s face.

‘
Next question, Don: does he genuinely carry that amount of
cash?’

‘
Haven’t been able to sort that one out yet, Bill. Working on
it.’

‘
All right - keep snooping.’ Crane stretched and adjusted his
position on the seat. ‘What’s happening with the murder
investigation?’

At that exact moment, Loz was overtaking a slow-moving van. On
hearing the word ‘murder’, he nearly left the road.

‘
Fucking watch it!’ Crane yelled at him.

Loz regained control. ‘Sorry, guys.’

‘
As far as I can tell, they’re getting nowhere with it.
Obviously the cops reckon it’s drug-related - correct, to a degree.
Otherwise, nothing.’

‘
What about the garage-owner?’

‘
Won’t be a problem - knows nothing anyway. I arranged use of
the garage through a long chain of people. I’m well down the line,
too far down to unravel. Don’t worry, I’ve been very
careful.’

Crane leaned back. He wanted to know everything, but for the
moment he was content.

They had just reached the outskirts of Los Cristianos. There
were many questions still to be asked.

Contrary to widespread public belief, exaggerated by police
dramas on TV and film, murders are not solved by maverick cops
acting on their own instincts, breaking rules, disobeying their
supervisors and falling into bed with sexy suspects. They are
solved by routine, often tedious investigation by professional
detectives who dedicate time and effort, often unpaid and
unrecognised, and occasionally a smidgen of creativity, to catching
the murderer.

Whilst it can be exciting to be part of a Murder Squad, most
of the work is boring, generated by a harassed office manager
churning out ‘actions’ which are then allocated to detectives -
usually, but not always, working in pairs. They then follow up the
‘action’ to the bitter end until they get a result, or otherwise.
Then they go back to be given another, and so on and so forth -
until there is a breakthrough. Even then, the actions don’t
stop.

Much to her surprise and delight, Danny had been drafted on to
the murder team. These emotions were tempered by an action which,
whilst of vital importance to the whole investigation, seemed to be
getting nowhere fast. Very frustrating, as she believed this could
be the key to the whole thing.

The action read, very simply,
Identify the unknown male in the vehicle inspection
pit.
She was then expected to follow up
all the avenues open to her to achieve this objective.

The first and most obvious port of call was to the Fingerprint
Department. Danny had personally taken the dead man’s dabs whilst
his body was on the mortuary slab, awaiting post-mortem. She had
held his cold flesh, applied the fingerprint ink with a roller and
manipulated good quality prints on to the required forms. That bit
did not bother her in the least; what did was the sight of the head
wounds. She could not stop her eyes from flicking up towards them,
seeing injuries which reminded her of Jack Sands’s wounds as he lay
in her fridge. However, she completed the task, relieved to get
away.

Fingerprints are not without their problems. Firstly, the
obvious one: if the person is not in the system, there is no
result. Secondly, if the person is not on the ‘Livescan’ data base
- the computerised fast-track fingerprint recognition system - then
a protracted manual search of all files has to be carried out. Even
if the person
is
on record, there is the possibility that it could take weeks,
even months, to match the dabs. There is also the minute
possibility that a match might not be made. No system is
infallible.

The dead man’s prints were not on ‘Livescan’ and after three
days, no manual match had been made. Danny was getting nowhere with
her ‘action’. Dental records were another option to identification
and she was awaiting results from this, which can also be a
long-drawn-out process.

Another avenue to explore is Missing From Home files, but they
were not producing anything of interest as yet and anyway, Danny
held out little hope from this. It was more than likely the dead
man was from the criminal fraternity, and mysterious disappearances
amongst felons and their families did not always result in someone
being reported missing.

Obviously the murders had generated a great deal of media
interest. The press, locally and nationally, and local TV had been
more than happy to circulate an artist’s impression of the dead
man. This was Danny’s biggest hope in trying to ID
the guy. The media usually prompted response, but
so far there had been zilch.

Danny knew that FB was in contact with the
Crimewatch
TV programme,
and other similar shows, with a view to getting some lengthy
national TV time - but so were forty-two other police forces, all
clamouring and claiming their crimes were the most important ones.
If Lancashire could get it on soon, there would be a pretty good
chance of a result. Big ‘if’.

As for the dead man himself, he had been completely naked. No
clothing or documentation had been found, so nothing from that
angle either.

Danny sat at a desk in the Murder Incident Room (MIR) and
scratched her head. This was her first mega murder enquiry and she
had been tasked with a pivotal ‘action’. She was getting nowhere
with it and now she was grasping at straws.

Colin Hodge’s apartment was in Los Cristianos, about a mile
away from the centre of the small port, in a block of at least
fifty other similar apartments. There was a large pool outside next
to which was a snack bar selling food and drink.

The woman from the night before had left and he was alone. His
head was more together following his shower and another screw
therein. He had spent the last hour on a sun lounger by the pool,
sipping San Miguel and reading a paperback thriller. He reached the
end of a chapter and folded down the corner of the page, then lay
back with the book on his bare chest, his right hand reaching down
for the beer at his side.

A figure appeared over him, blocking out the
sunlight.

Something stirred in Hodge - maybe a tinge of fear - and for
the first time he felt ever so slightly out of control. So far he
had been master of ceremonies, but now, on their ground, he had
lost that edge.

‘
Can I help you?’ Hodge asked. His eyes focused on the
man.

He was only a small guy, maybe five-six, nothing more. Pretty
weedy-looking, wearing a bright shirt and light trousers. His left
hand was bandaged.

‘
Be on the ferry to La Gomera at three.’

That was all he said. He turned and walked away, ignoring
Hodge’s, ‘But, what ...?’

Hodge leaned slowly back and picked up his beer with a dithery
hand. He finished it off, but his throat remained constricted and
dry.

Henry Christie’s hair had been closely cropped again with a
number two attachment to the trimmer. He’d allowed his stubble a
couple of days’ growth and now shaved electrically with the shaver
head to maintain that level of growth. Designer stubble. He did not
like it personally. He preferred a good, wet, close shave each day,
but stubble suited the image of Frank Jagger, his alter
ego.

Once again, he was back into his legend, rather like slipping
into an old raincoat. He was at Lancashire Constabulary
Headquarters near to Preston, where he was being briefed by Rupert
Davison on the current state of the investigation into Jacky Lee’s
murder. Also present, listening in and butting in when appropriate
or otherwise, was ACC Fanshaw-Bayley.

Although Headquarters was quite close to his home, Henry had
not driven directly to it that afternoon. Instead he had set off
early and made his way to a very secret location on an industrial
estate on the outskirts of Blackburn. It was a location known only
to undercover police officers, the admin staff who directly
supported them and a couple of high-ranking officers in the
National Crime Squad which covered the North-West of England. Not
even FB or Rupert Davison knew where it was. Its location was
strictly controlled on a tight need-to-know basis.

It was a large, single-storey unit, surrounded by a high
fence, protected by the latest hi-tech equipment, rented ultimately
by the NCS. A fictitious company operated from the unit, ostensibly
distributing goods in various shapes and sizes throughout the
country. At least that’s what all the other companies on the estate
were led to believe and anyone watching the place would also
believe it too. It looked like a real company, operated like one,
but it was only a shell. In reality it was the base where
undercover police operatives went to adopt or ditch their legends
or pick up or drop off gear and equipment.

Henry had driven all the way from Blackpool in his own car,
cautiously adopting anti-surveillance tactics to ensure he wasn’t
being followed - which could mean his cover was blown. In the
undercover game nothing is ever taken for granted, not if you
wanted to collect a pension. And Henry wanted.

In the unit, accessible only by key-code and swipe cards, he
picked up Frank Jagger’s pager and mobile phone and the keys for
the XJS. He slid into the driver’s seat, enjoying the only perk to
being undercover - rarely was money any object. Going for top-class
villains meant that cash had to be spent. It was probably the only
area in policing where spending had not been drastically reduced
over the past few years, though it still remained a consideration
in this cost-conscious age.

Then, adopting anti-surveillance tactics again, he made his
way to Headquarters Training School.

Henry focused his attention on Davison’s words. They might
just save his life.

‘
OK, it stands like this: the murder squad in Manchester have
had both of Jacky Lee’s minders in for questioning. Funnily enough
they deny any involvement in the dirty deed, and what they say
conflicts with your and Terry Briggs’s statements.’

‘
In what way?’ Henry asked.

‘
Thompson and Elphick reckon they did a runner
after
Lee had been shot,
not before, which is what you said. They say they were so
frightened, they ran ... poor little mites.’

‘
Do any other witnesses contradict what they say, and support
our version of events?’

‘
No.’ Davison pulled a pained face. ‘Everybody conflicts with
everybody else, at least in some details. You know what it’s like
when this sort of thing happens - your mind gets blown. So, because
your evidence does not exist, in inverted commas’ - here Davison
tweaked the first and second fingers on both hands to indicate
inverted commas - ‘we can’t put it to them, as such.’ He was
referring to his decision not to use Henry and Terry’s statements,
at least not until the undercover operation had paid off, or not,
as the case might be.

‘
What do you mean, “as such”?’ Henry wanted to know. He was
suspicious of the phrase. It sounded odd to him.

Davison corrected himself. ‘Only that we haven’t used your
evidence at all. Now,’ he moved on smoothly, leaving Henry slightly
dissatisfied with the remark, ‘it was suggested to Thompson and
Elphick that they were behind Lee’s death and that they have gained
considerably from it. They denied it, of course, but the word
picked up by the murder team is that these guys are now in control
of Lee’s operation. It’s a pretty big rumour out on the streets
too, but not substantiated yet.’