The Last Big Job (30 page)

After getting the file, Danny had then reached Gillrow by
phone. It had been a stilted conversation. He seemed reluctant to
talk, stated his memory was not what it once was and he could
hardly even recall the name Fitch. Danny had started the phone call
believing it would be enough, but the strange vibes she picked up
alerted her instinct and made her decide that a face-to-face
interview would be more appropriate.

Which is how she found herself crammed on to a holiday charter
flight, suffering severe earache, swallowing like mad, sucking a
boiled sweet, and descending gradually towards Tenerife.

The seat-belt sign came on - and the No Smoking one. This
latter one made her snort. Some joke. The whole flight had been a
non-smoker, which was not good. Four hours without a drag was
purgatory for her. She was longing for the inside of the terminal
building where she would put four cigarettes in her mouth, light
them all and inhale a quadruple lungful of smoke.

To fight the feeling, Danny tried to relax and think some more
about ex-DI Gillrow. Before flying out she had made a quick visit
to the HR department at Headquarters and requested to see Gillrow’s
personal file. It had been retrieved from a dusty storeroom, where
old personal files are laid to rest.

She did not learn a great deal about the man. He had been a
career detective, moving from local CID work to the RCS as it was
then, and bouncing between the two as he rose through the ranks. He
had retired at the age of fifty-two with thirty-three years’
service behind him and not a blemish on his record. Mr Perfect. A
decent, hard-working individual, now enjoying a long, and happy
retirement on an island in the sun, as many police officers often
did. He was not quite sixty and had a lot more living to do.
According to the file he lived in Tenerife with his second wife. He
had been married to her for nineteen years. Yes, a good all-round
egg ... and yet Danny shuddered ever so slightly. The guardedness
of the phone call - something was just not quite right, but she
didn’t know what. Only by talking to him face to face, watching his
reactions, his body language, his eyes, would she be
satisfied.

The undercarriage whined down with a creak and a groan. Final
descent.

Danny saw road lights below her from the window. She tightened
her seat belt, then glanced at her watch - 9.30 p.m. She made some
mental calculations: up to an hour tops to get through the airport,
collect luggage and pick up the pre-ordered hire car; twenty
minutes to Los Cristianos - a resort she knew well from previous
holidays - book into the hotel, quick shower, change into holiday
clothes, then down to the harbour for a meal and a bottle of wine
in a restaurant.

She tried unsuccessfully to wipe the grin off her
face.

It was a dirty job, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. .
.

It was an awfully civilised occasion by any standards. A
thirtieth birthday party, the big three-zero.

The entire restaurant had been hired for it - at a very
discounted price, obviously. A marquee had been erected in the
gardens, with a dance-floor and live music from Queen and Beatles
tribute bands. The food, wine and entertainment were all terrific
and free to everyone who had been invited.

Henry Christie did not want to be there.

It was not in his plans to be invited to Gary Thompson’s
girlfriend’s birthday bash. But such was the way of undercover
operations. He had intended that the first down payment of the
money for the stolen whisky should have taken place in an
environment which he controlled. The last-minute party invitation
had thrown him off kilter and he could not really refuse it. Gary
had said he wanted to settle things at the party and for Henry to
have said no would have probably aroused suspicion.

At least it meant he was in the bloke’s good books and maybe
there would be some opportunity to get Gary or Gunk to start
blabbing whilst under the influence of drink.

Henry, wired up, walked into the marquee entrance and had a
listen to the Freddie Mercury lookalike for a few minutes, quite
impressed.

Whilst lounging there and being treated to a rousing rendition
of ‘Hammer to Fall’, Henry’s eyes roved across the assorted
assemblage. Then he did a double-take and tensed up as he
recognised someone in the crowd - a guy called Fallon, a Manchester
crim, low-level drug dealer, who Henry had surveilled and locked up
a few years before when he’d been on the squad. Henry moved away
from the marquee, quickly putting his drink to his mouth to cover
some of his face. This was one of those exact reasons why
undercover cops do not work near home. The possibility of being
blown out, accidentally or otherwise, was very real and
dangerous.

And if Fallon was here, who else could be?

What he needed to do was conduct his business with Thompson,
make his excuses and then a sharp exit.

He tried to stroll nonchalantly away from the tent whilst
holding his glass up to his cheek, pretending to scratch the corner
of his eyes. He had gone about ten yards towards the restaurant
when a big, heavy arm wrapped around his shoulders. Gunk Elphick
stuck his face into Henry’s, overpowering the detective’s sense of
smell with a combination of booze and a particularly repugnant
aftershave. The fusion stung Henry’s eyeballs, made him blink
rapidly.

‘
Frank, how you doing, pal?’ slurred Gunk, oiled to a very
high viscosity.

‘
I’m fine, considering.’

Gunk stepped back, affronted. ‘You still moanin’ about me
duffin’ you up?’

‘
Duffing isn’t the word I would choose. Hammering the shite
out of, is the phrase. And yes, I am sore.’

‘
Y’soft twat.’ Gunk punched him hard on the shoulder. ‘Nowt
personal.’

‘
So I’ve been told.’

Gunk’s face warped into a ‘Don’t give a monkey’s anyway’ sort
of look. ‘What do you think about the do?’ He swept his arm in an
all-encompassing gesture, taking in the whole of the
party.

‘
Big do. Nice.’ Henry nodded appreciatively.

‘
Yeah, you’re right - effin’ big do.’ Gunk gave Henry a
salacious wink for some unfathomable reason. ‘We’ve invited a lot
of top boys to this, both as a sign of friendship and also to put
‘em on notice that me and Gazzer’ve arrived. To let ‘em know where
the power is going to be in the future. A kind of friendly poke in
the ribs to our competitors, sorta.’ Gunk’s big index finger
rocketed towards Henry’s chest to reinforce the point. Henry caught
it in his fist and slowed it down before it broke his sternum. The
finger was as podgy as a semi-erect cock. Henry let it go
quickly.

Gunk leaned into Henry again. The drink was making him
voluble. ‘We’re going to be big, me and Gazzer,’ he breathed. ‘Got
big plans ... and now that we’ve got the backing. . . and we’ve
already let the rest of the nobs know we won’t be twatted around
with.’ Again, he winked.

‘
You mean by that, the way you dealt with Jacky
Lee?’

Gunk tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘Ex - fucking -
zacktly. We are going to be immense in this town.’ He leaned back
slightly, teetered, then regained balance.

‘
Can you talk Russian?’ Henry asked him.

‘
No need. English is the language of the world, these days.
They talk it better’n me, and they talk money. That’s all we need
to get along, innit?’

‘
Sounds a good enough combination to me,’ Henry agreed -
except that he seriously questioned the wisdom of such a
partnership as, over the last couple of days, he had done some
research into the Russian Mafia.

Henry had contacted his friend and colleague at the FBI office
in London, a man called Karl Donaldson. He and Henry had met each
other a few years earlier on a case concerning American Mafia
connections in the North of England – a job that had almost cost
Henry his life. Henry knew Karl would be able to give him the
lowdown on the Russians, in particular how they operated
abroad.

He had made the correct assumption. The Russians, it
transpired, were very high on the agenda of the FBI for reasons
Donaldson did not immediately explain.

Donaldson got quickly into his stride. Since the demise of the
USSR, the American began, the Russian Mafia had internationalised
very quickly and became a leading player in global crime. He went
on to quote a few facts about Russian operations outside that
country. They fell into three main categories.

The first was known as hard penetration. This is where the
Mafia decide to establish themselves as the predominant criminal
force in a particular area or country. In some cases this is
achieved by aligning themselves with local organised crime and in
others taking on the locals directly and bloodily in turf wars.
Examples of countries in which this approach had been taken were
Poland, Austria, Germany and Israel.

Next category, Donaldson went on with relish, was a more
subtle technique known as soft penetration. This method is chosen
when the marauding Russians see either the local law enforcers or
the local organised gangs as threats, such as in the UK where the
cops, on the whole, are pretty effective or in Italy, where the
local Mafia are just as ruthless and well-organised as the Russians
themselves. In these cases, their usual method of infiltration is
by way of legitimate business fronts.

Finally - last but not least - came Donaldson’s third option:
service penetration. In this way the Russians are able to cash in
on their undoubted skills and abilities in several areas by
providing key services to criminal gangs, whether it be money
laundering or assassination.

There were examples, he said, of the Russians combining two or
all three of these approaches where necessary. They sometimes kill
for the locals, then move into their organisations, then take over
- often by use of force.

Henry felt slightly queasy at the revelation.

Donaldson had concluded by telling Henry that the FBI, and the
CIA, he believed, were investigating several murders which appeared
to have been carried out by highly trained Russian killers
contracted by local criminals.

‘
Good Lord,’ Henry exclaimed as Donaldson finished the last
point. He quickly asked the American if he knew any of the Russian
language. Henry knew Donaldson was a whizz at language.

‘
Yeah, I’m studying it at night school in Basingstoke, doing
what you Brits call an A level. Why?’

‘
What does. . . let me try to get this right. . .
“
Astana veesta”
mean? He tried to recall what Jacky Lee’s killer had shouted
at him.

Donaldson thought for a moment. ‘If you’ve got it right, it
could be “Stop” maybe.’

Henry quickly told him about the situation in which he found
himself, described Jacky Lee’s murder, and the subsequent
appearance of the Bryan Ferry lookalike, Mr Drozdov, on the scene
in Manchester.

As a matter of urgency, Donaldson asked Henry to send him a
copy of everything he had, and promised to do some digging for him
with his European contacts.

Now, as Henry looked at Gunk, swaying drunkenly before him at
the party, he wondered who would come off better in the
partnership, the Russians or the locals. But he already knew the
answer. For all their bluster and violence, Gary and Gunk did not
have the brains to foresee the implications of getting into bed
with the Russians.

Henry did not have one jot of sympathy.

‘
They did Jacky for us as a favour,’ Gunk said bluntly,
astonishing his listener. ‘They wanted to work with Jacky at first,
but he told them to sling their hooks. Then they talked to us,
discreet like, put a deal to us and we had the vision to see
ahead.’ Suddenly Gunk clammed up tight, realising he had said too
much, even in his inebriated state.

Yeah, thought Henry, the Russians do not do favours without a
payback day.

Gunk grinned lopsidedly at Henry, who thought fleetingly that
he was just a big, dumb lad with a very violent streak in
him.

‘
Where’s your bird?’ Henry enquired innocently.

‘
Me? I don’t have a bird. I shag blokes, mate. I’m a poof,
queer, whatever you wanna call me . . . and to be honest, I fancy
shagging you.’ Gunk’s ‘dumb lad’ face turned menacing. ‘But I think
you know that already.’

They commandeered the restaurant manager’s office, the man
reluctantly vacating the room when he realised it was probably in
his best interests to do so. The verbal request for him to
up-stakes came from the drunken Gunk; behind him stood Gary
Thompson, Drozdov and Henry. Four very intimidating characters to
say the least.

Gary took the manager’s seat behind the desk. Drozdov and Gunk
settled into a ragged two-seater sofa. Gunk immediately loosened
his belt, parted his legs and farted loudly and proudly. Henry
caught the most fleeting expression on Drozdov’s face, making the
detective guess that when the time was right, Gunk would be the
first to be fitted with a cement overcoat when the Russians took
over.

Henry, chairless, perched on the corner of the desk. He picked
up a letter-opener and scraped his nails - because he’d seen some
gangsters do it in films. He very quickly learned that
letter-openers are not designed to clean behind
fingernails.