The Last Big Job (36 page)

He dropped on top of her like a dead weight, forcing himself
between her legs, driving all the air out of her body, and pulling
her skirt up over her hips. He jammed his dirty bandaged hand over
her mouth and with his other he held her left wrist, effectively
pinning her down. She could hardly move underneath him.

‘
Now then, you fucking flighty bitch,’ he panted into her
face, spittle bubbling out of his mouth. The exertion of the
struggle with her across the beach had expended most of his
stamina. However, he was on top, in control, had the power. He
smiled wickedly and ground his pubic’ bone against hers. She
whimpered. ‘You’ve been asking too many questions, causing too many
ripples. This is just a warning to you - fuck off back to England
and don’t come nosying down here again, or next time, you’re a dead
bitch. Got that?’

He allowed her to nod her head.

‘
Good,’ he sneered. ‘But now that we’re here,’ he went on,
‘all intimate, no point in missing a chance, is there?’ He simply
could not resist. He released her hand and reached down to unzip
his trousers.

Bad move on his part.

Danny had no wish to discover what delicacy lay waiting behind
his flies. Nor would she ever placidly accept being sexually
assaulted. She would rather have died. She did two things
simultaneously. Although his bandaged hand smelled awful, she
opened her mouth and sank her teeth into it; she also grabbed a
handful of sand and flung it into his eyes and followed through
with a punch, though it wasn’t as rock-solid as she would have
liked.

Loz screamed and rolled over, not knowing whether to nurse his
hand or rub his eyes.

‘
You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!’ he yelled in agony, getting
to his knees.

Danny had a surge of power and energy, resources tapped from
the well of self-preservation. She smacked Loz hard across the side
of his head, sending him sprawling. Then she really laid into him,
screaming wildly, incoherently, savagely kicking him repeatedly
about the head, ribs, guts and legs. He rolled with the blows,
scrambling wildly to escape from the barrage, now having lost all
the advantage.

Danny was remorseless in her attack, until Loz secured a
foothold in the sand, dragged himself to his feet and ran
away.

Danny watched him, her eyes afire, doubled over with exertion,
unable to give chase. He loped on to the promenade like a wounded
animal and disappeared up a side street.

When she had regained control of her breathing and heart rate,
Danny found her handbag in the sand and liberated a cigarette from
it. She lit it with dithering hands.

Now she knew for certain: she really had rattled somebody’s
cage. She knew she should have reported the matter there and then
to the police - but the thought of dealing with the Spanish cops
filled her with dread. It would turn into a bureaucratic nightmare.
.. if anything came of this, she wanted some English-speaking
back-up behind her.

Terry Briggs was feeling worried. He checked his watch.
Thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d driven away from Henry
and Gunk. As he had pulled away, Henry had given a thumbs-up which,
in the sign language the two undercover officers had developed
between themselves, meant ‘call me in half an hour if I haven’t
already made contact’.

Terry had twice tried Henry’s mobile but had not been able to
make a connection. It was possible Henry’s batteries were down or
that his machine was switched off - but only possible, not
probable. A working mobile phone was a lifeline for U/C
officers these days and only a reckless one would
let the mobile become inoperative. Henry wasn’t
reckless.

Terry had driven out of Rochdale and taken the road across the
moors towards Blackburn. He had stopped close to a pub called Owd
Bett’s.

Forty minutes, then forty-five passed. Not good.

Terry weighed up the odds of cocking the job up, but decided
to drive back to the industrial unit anyway. He would think up some
excuse for his return if necessary.

He did a U-turn and headed back towards Rochdale. He went into
Healey Dell from the opposite direction and bounced down the road
towards the industrial estate. As he turned off the road, he
slammed on to avoid Gunk’s Jeep which careered out of the estate,
slithering and sliding on the loose ground, no lights displayed.
Terry caught a glimpse of Gunk at the wheel. There was a savage
expression on his features as he threw the fourwheel-drive vehicle
around. Then he was gone. With trepidation Terry edged the van
across the bumpy ground towards the unit.

Henry’s XJS was parked in exactly the same spot.

Terry’s stomach churned.

Terry could see a light behind the shutter door. He reached
under his seat and picked up the expandable baton secured
underneath. With a flick of the wrist, he cracked it out to its
full length. He switched the van engine off, leaving the headlights
on, then stepped slowly down. All was quiet. He could hear nothing
at first, then there was something, a sort of sobbing or moaning
from inside the warehouse. He approached the side door, fear of the
unknown gripping him, his chest palpitating. He stepped inside.
Apprehensively with the tip of the baton he pushed the next door,
the one which opened out into the unit.

At the sight before him, Terry’s mouth dropped open in
shock.

PART
TWO

Terminal Ballistics

Chapter Fifteen

Through his dubious contacts in the north of
Lancashire, Smith had arranged accommodation
for
himself and Billy Crane the night
before the robbery was due to be committed in a grotty, damp-ridden
flat in the west end of
Morecambe, an area
of
town with a shifting population, where
crime and drugs were facts of
everyday
life and strangers did not stand out because everyone was a
stranger. It was a good choice of
location.

Billy Crane had been unable to get any real sleep. Three a.m.
saw him up and about, making black coffee for
himself after having to feed the electric meter with coins.
He sat on the kitchen floor next to a cold oil-filled radiator,
shivering as he sipped the brew.

He moved into what was euphemistically known as the living
room. The sum total of
the furniture was a
double-seater settee with its wiry insides protruding dangerously,
and a creaky hard-backed dining chair. There was a gas fire,
however, which Crane lit cautiously with a match. He half expected
the thing to explode and end the biggest day of
his life with a spectacular bang even before it had begun.
Without switching the light on, Crane dragged the chair up to the
window, sat on it and rubbed the condensation away. The street
below was dark and quiet.

His mind was alive, churning with endless questions. Had he
done this, arranged that, seen to this, fixed that up? Going over
every possibility and scenario in his mind, desperate to seek out
the weak link in the coming hours. He was experienced and cynical
enough to know there would be one, but he could not put his finger
on it - other than to realise that, as in all crimes, the weak link
was the human element. That is what always lets you down. The
grass, the greed, the weakness, could never be truly catered
for.

He rolled his read. His neck cracked.

A smile grew on his lips. He was unbelievably excited by the
situation. He had thought he would never again turn to crime of
this nature. Robbery was so old hat and very hard to pull off
without getting caught that most big time operators like himself
had turned to easier ways of making a living. And yet, actually
committing a crime like this was better than anything; better than
sex, better than the rush of a drug. It was the ultimate
experience. Nothing could touch it. He curled his right hand into a
fist and gave the air a little jab. ‘Yessss,’ he whispered behind
gritted teeth. ‘Fucking good.’

A cop car rolled on to the street, lights out, creeping slowly
along. Instinctively Crane drew back, watched it progress past the
building in which the flat was situated.

It U-turned at the end of the street and crawled back down.
Then it was gone.

Crane exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. He
could feel his heart hammering, nerves twisting his innards. He was
pleased he felt like this. On edge. Therefore sharp. Therefore able
to perform.

He stood up and walked into the bedroom, where Don Smith lay
asleep on the rickety single bed. Crane slid into the sleeping bag
on the floor and closed his eyes.

There was a long day ahead.

Colin Hodge reported for work at the Preston depot at 6 a.m.
As driver for the day it was his responsibility to check over the
vehicle, ensure the tank was full, it was clean, there was air in
the tyres and that the electronic tracker system was working
correctly; he also had to fill in the driver’s log and insert the
tachograph. His check, as always, was thorough. It took half an
hour, by which time his three colleagues had reported
in.

They had a quick brew in the refreshment room.

Halfway through his cup of tea, Hodge stood up suddenly and
said, ‘Jeez!’ He held his stomach and winced painfully. ‘Had a
curry last night down at the Star ... urgh . . . it’s not agreeing
with me at all. I’ve been shitting through the eye of a needle.’
After he had spoken these poetic words, conjuring up such a
romantic image, and much to his workmates’ amusement, he rushed to
the toilet.

The ‘curry’ story was all part of the act. He had not eaten
Indian the night before, but he needed to set the scene for the day
ahead.

Nevertheless he did have to go to the toilet in a hurry
because his bowels were a maelstrom of fearful turbulence. It was
the big day. The one he had dreamed of and planned for, the one
which would end his relative poverty for good.

He only just reached the toilet in time.

As industrial estates in Lancashire go, White Lund, on the
outskirts of Morecambe on the Lancaster boundary, is pretty big.
Hundreds of businesses operate from it, from well managed,
prosperous, totally legitimate concerns, to seedy operations run by
seedy operators down dingy dead-end roads - and everything in
between the two extremes.

It was to one of these seedy operations that Don Smith drove
Billy Crane later that morning.

Crane had managed to get back to sleep after his earlier bout
of insomnia and was surprised to find Smith waking him at 8 a.m.
They had strolled down to the promenade at Morecambe and devoured a
big, fat boy’s breakfast at one of the sea-front cafes. Thus
fortified, they returned to their lodgings, picked up their car -
hired under false details and later to be destroyed - and drove up
to White Lund.

They were using the warehouse owned by a guy who was
predominantly dodgy. The man dealt in huge volumes of smuggled
cigarettes, alcohol and perfumes from the continent, brought in
either via the south coast ports or through Heysham, near
Morecambe, by way of Southern Ireland. He supplied numerous
independent retailers, mainly off-licences, chemists and
market-traders with goods at rock-bottom prices. He made a very
tidy living. He had been warned off by Smith and well-paid to take
a day’s holiday.

Smith now had the keys and the alarm code.

‘
This looks good,’ Crane commented as they drew up in front of
the high steel gates outside the warehouse. The gates formed part
of a twelve-foot-high fence which encircled the premises. Opposite
the warehouse was a wide tract of spare land and no other business
nearby had a direct line of sight to the warehouse, which is
probably why the owner picked it in the first place, so business
could be conducted unobserved.

The warehouse was low and long and big. There were three doors
at the front, two roller doors, one of which opened into a loading
bay, and a normal door.

‘
That’s why I chose it,’ Smith smiled. He jumped out of the
car and unlocked the gates. Crane slid behind the wheel and drove
the car into the yard, leaving it parked there. It was 9 a.m.
People would begin arriving soon.

Forty miles to the south, Henry Christie pulled off the A59
and drove slowly through the entrance to Lancashire Constabulary
Headquarters at Hutton, near to Preston. He flashed his badge at
the security man who waved him through impatiently and with the
minimum of formality. Briefly Henry wondered about the level of
security, not just at police headquarters, but at all police
establishments. It was pretty lax, but he was reassured to have
been told that in the not too distant future a perimeter fence was
to be built and a proper procedure for entering and leaving the
place introduced. However, before he could pursue any critical
thought, the question of security left him as quickly as it had
arrived, like a bubble bursting, and his mind segued back into the
state of numbness which had been its feature over the last couple
of weeks.