The Last Big Job (34 page)

Davison’s career plan had two prongs to it: one was to be a
high-ranking detective at some stage, and another was to become
part of that elite group of top cops known as ACPO - the
Association of Chief Police Officers. He had his heart set on
becoming a Chief Constable by the time he was
forty-five.

Whenever possible, he engineered time on CID duties; this was
fairly easy to do, as people on the APS could, to a degree, pick
and choose their developmental posts. Hence he did short spells as
a Detective Constable, Detective Sergeant and Detective Inspector
-- to get these on to his CV. He eventually got stuck at uniform
Chief Inspector, much to his annoyance. Because of this he answered
a job advert in
Police Review
asking for suitably qualified officers to apply
for Superintendents’ vacancies in the Greater Manchester
Police.

He sailed through the selection procedures, was transferred
form Lancashire and appointed to uniform Superintendent.
Eventually, assisted by his CV, he got a job as a Senior
Investigating Officer on the CID.

This was where his problems began.

He had not realised that a wide CID background was a necessity
for this role. He had thought of the SIO more as a management
function, rather than an investigative one. He was wrong. Whilst
the management side of it was very important, the nous of an
investigator - a body-catcher, a detective with a good nose for a
collar - was probably even more important.

The first couple of murders he found himself heading were
cleared up easily, lulling him into a false sense of security. The
next six got nowhere and he started to panic. Six major
investigations stalling was not good news for someone who wanted to
go higher.

He desperately needed a spectacular success.

Davison knew that in his early days as a cop, his reputation
had been one of recklessness. He had managed to curb that very
successfully, even though on some occasions this trait would
resurface: once, for example, as a uniformed Inspector, he
single-handedly rugby-tackled a gunman at a siege, putting his own
life and those of others in extreme danger, but at the same time
achieving a remarkable result. He had been severely criticised for
his actions internally, but externally the media hailed him as a
hero.

It was that side of his personality that was driving his
actions at the present time. If he didn’t get a result in the Jacky
Lee murder case, he knew his time as an SIO would come to an
ignominious end and maybe his promotion prospects would be spoiled
for ever.

Desperation and the possibility of a superb result made him
use Henry Christie and Terry Briggs’s statements and actually
interview Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick himself. He could almost
visualise the newspaper headlines acknowledging his success. But
his lack of criminal interviewing skills showed when both men
laughed in his face and admitted nothing; then when Henry had been
beaten up, he realised what a stupid error he had made - hence his
idea to make the master interview tapes ‘disappear’ from the
library to cover his tracks.

And now his career was facing its biggest ever crisis: Henry
Christie’s threat to expose his incompetence.

Davison knew that if Henry kept his word - and there was no
reason to doubt it - he was finished. Certainly his time as an SIO
would end. The subsequent enquiry would highlight his foolhardiness
in jeopardising the life of an undercover cop and he would no doubt
be accused of corrupt and improper practice for interfering with
the interview tapes, maybe even theft. His police career could well
come to an end in shame and disgrace.

Yes, Davison realised, in Henry Christie he had a
problem.

Six hours after the Russian, Yuri Ivankov, had landed in
Paris from Manchester over a week earlier, he was sitting in a cafe
in the north of the city of Boulevard des Batignolles at the busy
junction with Rue de Constantinople. He was eating a plate of
oysters followed by
ris de veau
and had been there for thirty minutes, mixing in
easily and inconspicuously with the early evening crowd, when the
target arrived.

Yuri had been adequately briefed on his arrival in the city by
a man who sat next to him on the coach from the airport. Little had
actually been said, but that did not surprise the Russian. In his
area of speciality, most people did not want to interact socially
with him. He understood this, took no umbrage. The man simply
handed him a slim briefing pack to read, containing a few, but
essential, details; these included several recent photographs of
the target, when and where he could be found that evening, where
and what type of weapon would be available for use.

The Russian scanned the pack a few times, then handed it back.
He and the man made no eye-contact and the remainder of the journey
passed in silence. The Russian was at a window seat, watching the
Paris skyline draw closer. It was a city he loved. He regretted not
being able to spend much time in it. After tonight, his second hit
in the city, he doubted he would ever return for
pleasure.

When the target appeared at the time specified in the brief
and sat down as predicted, the Russian was pleased. It meant
homework had been done. It also meant the target was a creature of
habit, something that no underworld player could afford to be. Not
if he wanted to stay alive.

The Russian wiped his mouth and checked his watch. Two minutes
to go.

He had already called for the bill and placed a generous
amount on the saucer. Generous enough for the waiter to develop a
fogged memory.

Only then did he reach underneath the table to remove the
handgun that had been taped there. The Russian did not check it.
The briefing note had specified where it was to be found, that the
safety would be off and that the gun would be wrapped in a plastic
bag to prevent the spent cartridges ejecting. That was a nice
touch, the Russian had thought. Empty cartridges meant evidence.
The note also said there would be a bullet in the breech and
therefore the gun would be ready for immediate use.

He stood up and strolled slowly out the cafe. It was a warm
night. Many of the outer tables were taken. People chatted happily,
concentrating on their food and wine.

He weaved between them, came up swiftly behind the target and
simply fired four shots into his head. The Russian had been
informed what type of bullets would be in the gun. The damage done
to the man’s head confirmed this.

Two long strides took the Russian to the edge of the
pavement.

Seemingly from nowhere, a trials bike screamed across in front
of him, two on board. The passenger held open a black plastic bag
into which the Russian dropped the pistol. The bike revved, slewed
away into the traffic and disappeared, immediately replaced by a
black Citroen. The rear passenger door swung open and the Russian
coolly flopped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. The car
accelerated away. The Russian did not have the slightest
inclination to glance back over his shoulder to see the terrified
confusion he had left in his wake.

It had been an easy hit of the type he had pulled a dozen
times before.

He was whisked away by more silent men, herded from one car to
another around the outer perimeter of Paris until he found himself
in the front passenger seat of a sleek Peugeot sports car, heading
south towards Orleans. From there he changed vehicles again and
travelled through the night to Clermont-Ferrand where he was
ushered into a grimy hotel for a few hours. Another car picked him
up at dawn and transferred him to the airport. Posing as a Swiss
businessman he flew to Rome. From there he picked up a short flight
to Luqa Airport on the island of Malta.

The last leg of his journey was by helicopter to Gozo, Malta’s
sister island, and then by hire car to a villa in the village of
Gharb where he had been crashed out ever since pulling the
trigger.

Other than the staff - cook and gardener - he was alone in the
stone villa. This suited him. He developed his tan and maintained
his fitness by using the small gym and pool. He relaxed by reading
some naval fiction, particularly Patrick O’Brian novels which he
adored. He had picked these up at Rome.

He knew he would be safe at the villa. The place was owned,
via a chain complex enough to deter even the most dedicated
investigator, by a Mafia family from Naples who did regular
business with the Russian’s master - the Drozdovs.

It was on the eighth day of his sojourn that his relaxed mind
churned over recent events in his life. In particular the
assassination he had carried out in Northern England.

He had been pleased enough with the job, having carried out
his instructions to the letter. But what made his eyes narrow
thoughtfully as he ate alone on the terrace, were the actions
of
Jacky Lee’s companion, the one he had
pondered over before, the one who had pointed a gun at him, dropped
into a combat stance - and not fired.

Surely if the man had been a friend of
Lee, he would have opened up. Yet he didn’t. He had a golden
opportunity, but chose not to fire.

That gave the Russian a very creepy feeling.

If the man had had a military background, he would have
fired.

If he had been a criminal, he would have fired.

But if the man had been a cop - he would not have
fired.

Soldiers and criminals don’t think twice about shooting people
who are running away. Cops do.

The Russian knew he was only guessing, but he felt compelled
to tell someone of
his
misgivings.

He finished his meal quickly, then made his way to the study
in the villa where there was an e-mail facility. He logged on and
started to type.

He would hate the man to become any sort of
a problem.

The lure of
two more duty-free
Benson & Hedges Specials bought on her flight into Tenerife and
a couple of
miniature vodkas from the
mini-bar in her room kept Danny dallying on the balcony for another
half hour, watching the harbour lights and blowing smoke rings into
the balmy night air. At one point she almost jumped out of
her skin. There was a sudden silence, just for a
fraction of
a second. No music, no people,
no cars, no hubbub - and in that moment she could have sworn she
heard the roar of
a lion. She dipped
forwards in her plastic chair, ears craning. Then all the other
noises clicked back into place. She sat back slowly, positive for a
moment about what she’d heard. Then she shook her head and smiled,
convincing herself it couldn’t be. Must have been a gust of
wind.

She took one last long drag of
her
cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before standing up and
brushing her skirt down. Her stomach gurgled its hunger
impatiently. She thought that perhaps she might have heard that
rumbling rather than a lion.

Time to move. She caught the lift down to the foyer and walked
out the hotel.

‘
That’s her,’ Gillrow whispered to Loz. They were sitting
behind a pillar, pretending to read newspapers, waiting on the
off-chance of spotting her.

Loz nodded. ‘I’ll
sort it.’ He
folded his newspaper and slapped it across Gillrow’s chest. ‘And
I’ll
enjoy it.’

He followed Danny out into the night.

The journey to the rendezvous point took three-quarters of an
hour. Henry followed Terry out of Blackburn and over the moors to
Haslingden in East Lancashire; through the towns of Rossendale -
Rawtenstall, Waterfoot, Bacup and Whitworth (all areas Henry knew
of old) - winding down through the narrow main roads until they hit
the Greater Manchester boundary at Rochdale. Here Terry did a sharp
right off the road into a steep valley known as the ‘Thrutch’,
where a river ran fiercely through a narrow gorge. This was Healey
Dell Nature Reserve, just inside Lancashire.

The road twisted tightly down until it bottomed out, flattened
and widened on the valley floor, then began to rise gradually
again. This time, on the right, was the entrance to a small
industrial estate, consisting of brick-built units once part of a
larger mill.

Terry drove in; Henry followed in the low-slung XJS, careful
not to rip out the underside of the car on the uneven ground. They
drew to a halt outside the shutter door of unit number four.
Obviously this was one of the places where Jacky Lee - and now Gunk
and Gary - stored contraband. It was heavily fortified but there
was no burglar alarm on the premises. Cops turning out to false
alarms could prove extremely embarrassing.

Henry switched the Jag engine off, got out and mooched over to
Terry. He stayed in the van, window down, elbow out.

‘
Where the hell are they?’ Terry asked.

As if in answer, the sound of a powerful engine grew nearer
and louder. A Jeep bounced on to the industrial estate, going far
too quickly, scrunching to a swerving halt just four inches away
from the back end of the Jag.