The Last Big Job (27 page)

Except that her excitement was halted quickly by a loud gurgle
from her intestines.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and raced out of the room to
the ladies’ toilets, where she burst into a cubicle and sank down
to her knees over the toilet bowl. Almost before she had finished
vomiting, she was scrambling like mad to drag her skirt up,
knickers down, to plonk herself down on the loo and empty her
bowels.

‘
Oh my God,’ she moaned again just as a stomach cramp creased
her guts.

Just her luck. Insult to injury. On the most important day of
the investigation for her, she was sick, had diarrhoea and was
about to start her period.

Henry Christie locked his hotel-room door, trotted down the
stairs and wandered into Manchester city centre. He went into the
Arndale Centre, which still bore the scars from the massive IRA
bomb attack which had devastated it several years before, found an
empty, working phone booth and made a quick call, after which he
strolled to McDonald’s where he ordered coffee and an Egg McMuffin
which tasted of cardboard. He wolfed down a couple more Advil for
his pains, then, after buying a newspaper from W.H. Smiths he
hobbled up to the Sticky Fingers restaurant off Deansgate. Here he
had another coffee, far more expensive and far nicer than the one
at McDonald’s.

Ten minutes later he became aware of a figure hovering next to
him. He looked up slowly and his sore face cracked into a grin.
‘Thanks for coming. It’s good to see you.’

The man slid into the seat opposite, shook hands across the
table. ‘Good to see you, too, Henry - but I have to say, you look
like shite.’

Henry guffawed. ‘Thanks a bunch. Let me order more coffee.’ He
folded the newspaper and beckoned a waitress. The coffee arrived
quickly.

‘
OK, nice coffee,’ the man said after taking a sip and wiping
his top lip with his finger and thumb. ‘What’s this all about,
H?’

Henry adjusted his backside, winced and glanced shiftily round
the cafe. It was almost empty, being so early. ‘Beast of Burden’
played over the sound system, one of Henry’s favourite Stones
tracks. ‘I believe you are the deputy SIO on the investigation into
the death of Jacky Lee - and before that you were on the enquiry
into the death of a guy that Lee himself was supposed to have
iced?’

The man nodded.

‘
Were you, or are you, aware that an undercover officer had
been assigned to Jacky Lee before he was killed and that the same
U/C officer is now assigned to Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick in
the hope of getting evidence of their involvement in Lee’s
demise?’

‘
No,’ the man said. His eyebrows knitted together, wondering
where this was going.

‘
Well, now you do,’ declared Henry.

A key turned in the lock. The handle revolved and the door
opened. Loz stood there looking as grubby and dishevelled as ever.
Colin Hodge was sitting on the edge of the bed, not having slept
during the night and since his abduction. Loz beckoned to him.
‘Come on.’

He stood up and followed laggardly. His feet were like lumps
of lead.

Without speaking, Loz took him down a wide hallway, a sweeping
flight of steps to the ground floor, through a set of wide French
windows and on to a terracotta terrace beyond which was the garden.
A table and chairs were set up on the terrace, protected by a large
umbrella. The sun was already hot in the clear sky.

Loz pointed with his bandaged hand to a mobile servery. ‘Help
yourself.’

Nervous, but trying to give the impression of confidence,
Hodge picked up a plate and examined a selection of breakfast
dishes on the hot and cold plates. He chose scrambled eggs and
sausage, a large glass of orange and black filtered
coffee.

Loz lounged back against the villa wall and watched him, a
sneer of contempt quivering on his lips underneath his rather
pathetic moustache.

Whilst walking back to the table, Hodge caught sight of two
men sitting on the grass by the outer garden wall, a good 100
metres away. They had rifles propped across their knees. Hodge sat
down heavily, frightened.

‘
What’s going on? Why am I here?’ Hodge demanded.

Loz shrugged uncaringly. ‘Eat your breakfast. You’ll find out
soon enough.’

Hodge poked at his food, pushing it aimlessly around the
plate, wishing he was back home, had never thought up this fucking
scheme, and was back earning six quid an hour.

He heard voices from inside the villa. Don Smith and Billy
Crane appeared from within, looking relaxed and cool.

‘
Colin!’ Smith said loudly. He strode to Hodge and held out
his hand to be shaken.

Hodge recoiled. ‘No chance! I want to know what’s going on. I
want to know where I am, what I’m doing here and then I want you to
take me back to the airport because I’m going home. This whole deal
is off. No one treats me like this,’ he snarled, slashing the air
with the edge of his hand. ‘No fucker.’

‘
Sit down, Colin,’ Smith said with a patient smile.

‘
Do not screw me around. I want out of here, out of this,
now.’

‘
Sit down, Mr Hodge,’ Crane said from behind Smith. ‘Let me
explain a few things to you.’

‘
No, you set of twats. Let
me
explain a few things to
you.’
Hodge gestured angrily at them
both. ‘This is my show, my deal. I run it, not you couple of
wankers. Get me into a car and get me home, because it’s off.
Understand? Off!’

‘
No, no, no, no, no, no,’ Crane said patronisingly. ‘You have
started a ball rolling. It’s not going to stop until it reaches the
bottom of the hill now, Mr Hodge. So sit down and pin your
lug-holes back. I have started talking to people, arranging things,
promising things - and these people are not like me and my friend
here: patient and friendly. They are ruthless and would not
hesitate to kill should they be disappointed in you. The fact of
the matter is, you are involved now and you cannot pull out. And
why would you want to, anyway? All that lovely money. .
.’

It was all lies about the people, but Hodge did not have to
know this. He stared from one villain to the other, shaking with
rage. Smith nodded reassuringly at him. He was trapped. He sank
slowly back into his chair.

‘
Good man,’ Crane said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get
myself some breakfast, then we’ll have a chat.’

‘
Me too,’ said Smith.

They walked to the servery and began to select food and
drink.

‘
Butter him up again,’ Crane whispered to Smith. Then he
turned to Loz, still lounging, and said, ‘Get lost.’

Like an unwanted, unloved dog, Loz slunk away.

‘
Now then Colin,’ Smith said smoothly, sitting down, ‘you’ve
got to understand a few facts here.’ Crane sat down opposite and
began to eat, not saying a word. ‘You’re right, OK, this is still
your show. That will not be taken away from you. We have no wish to
make it any different. You’re the guy with all the gen and we are
relying on you. You call the shots. You are the man. But by the
same token, we’re providing all the tools to do the job and because
of the nature of who we are and who else is going to be involved -
because make no mistake, Colin, this is going to be a big job and a
lot of people will be involved - we have to have a degree of
protection. That’s what this is about. Protection from outsiders.
OK, you know who I am. I accept that, but there is no need to know
anything about this man here, other than he is the organiser of all
the resources. We have a lot to lose if the cops, for example, get
hold of you, and you start blabbing.’ Smith forked some scrambled
egg into his mouth. ‘See where I’m coming from? It’s to protect you
and us.’

Hodge breathed in deeply. ‘Yeah, but I’ve been treated like
shit and I don’t like it.’

‘
That’s very much down to the way you were brought here, and
we can only apologise for the manner in which our associate
interpreted our instructions to him. He will be
reprimanded.’

Hodge began to soften. The rhetoric, coupled with his own
greed, was having a calming effect. He gave a minor shrug. ‘You
going to tell me where I am?’

‘
At a house somewhere on Gomera. That’s all you need to
know.’

‘
And what am I supposed to call you if you won’t tell me your
name?’ he asked of Crane.

Crane considered this. ‘You can call me Matt - Matt
Brinks.’

He smiled for the first time.

John Connor was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Greater
Manchester Police. Henry had known him for many years, having
attended a few national detective training courses with him. It
could not be said they were great buddies, but they got
along.

Connor leaned on the table. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re
talking about, Henry.’

Henry said sarcastically, ‘You would say that.’

‘
Say what?’ Connor was very confused. ‘I don’t know what the
hell you mean.’

Henry peered into Connor’s eyes. ‘He’s briefed you, hasn’t he?
To say nothing to me, hasn’t he?’

‘
Henry, are you off your tree? I’ve come here in all good
faith as the result of a very mysterious phone call and you lay
something on me I just do not understand. Tell me what you’re on
about, or else I’m off.’

‘
What has Rupert Davison told you about me?’

‘
Nothing.’

‘
Have you seen and used a statement by a guy called Frank
Jagger in your investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder? In particular
when interviewing Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick?’

Connor shook his head.

‘
Did you know an undercover operation was going on regarding
Jacky Lee?’

‘
No.’

Henry closed his eyes in deep despair and dropped his
head.

‘
Henry, what the hell are you talking about here?’

Malcolm Fitch. Date of birth 16.11.1940, Blackburn,
Lancashire. Two convictions, 1982, 1984. Both for conspiracy to
rob. OIC in both cases Detective Inspector Barney Gillrow, a
Lancashire officer seconded to the Regional Crime Squad, based in
Bolton. File held at that office.

Having purged her body of everything that was making her
unwell, Danny now felt much better. Her head still throbbed
unrelentingly, but the stomach pains and cramps had disappeared.
She was half human again, but obviously still half dead.

She read the PNC printout again and highlighted the salient
points with a pen, thrilled that at last she was looking at the
identity of the third dead body from the vehicle inspection pit.
She had been on to the Fingerprint Bureau to ask them to
double-check the details and they promised a result by the end of
the day.

There was no current address for Fitch and it would appear he
had not come to police attention since his last conviction fourteen
years ago. What she needed to do was start pulling together some
up-to-date information on him ASAP. Her gaze settled on the name of
the officer who had dealt with Fitch. Perhaps he would be a good
starting point. She wondered if she knew Gillrow, but the name
didn’t ring any bells with her. The fact that he was a Detective
Inspector in 1984 suggested he might not even be in the job now.
Could be retired. Might even be dead.

First port of call was the HR department at Headquarters to
find the current status of Gillrow.

Five minutes later, her fears were confirmed. Gillrow had
retired in 1990 and was now living in Tenerife.

Danny gave her temple a knock with the base of her hand and
tried to concentrate, devise a way ahead. She looked at the details
of the dead man again and those of the former DJ. HR had provided
Danny with an overseas phone number for Gillrow and she thought
that starting with him would be as good a place as any. She picked
up the phone and dialled the number. It connected remarkably
quickly and rang out clearly. No one answered. She hung up after
two dozen rings, intending to try later.

Her next avenue was to the Field Intelligence Officer (FIO) at
Blackburn, a detective she knew well from her days in the town many
years before. This time, even though she was calling internally,
the line was nowhere near as clear as the overseas one had appeared
to be.

‘
Danny Furness! A rave from the grave! How are you, gal?
Haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘
Doing great,’ she said, holding the phone away from her ear.
‘And you?’

They exchanged the requisite pleasantries before Danny posed
the question about Fitch, deceased, of that parish.

The FIO interrogated Lancashire Constabulary’s own
computerised intelligence system first - but it came up with
nothing about Fitch. ‘Doesn’t mean to say we don’t have anything on
him. I’ll check the manual files. Hang on . . .’ The phone was
placed on a desk. Danny heard cabinet drawers sliding open, some
background chatter, the tapping of a computer keyboard. Eventually
the FIO came back on the line. ‘Nothing in the active files, Danny,
but there is a file in the “dead section”. An old one. . . dum de
dah . . . let’s have a looksee . . . no, nowt since the
mid-eighties. I take it he’s reappeared on the scene?’