The Last Big Job (37 page)

Automatically he turned first left after the gatehouse into
Hutton Hall Avenue. On his left were former police houses, all now
offices for various departments, including Discipline &
Complaints and Performance Review. He trundled slowly past the
rugby field on his right. As ever it was superbly maintained and
looked wonderful in the early morning sunshine. Henry had played
regularly on it in his younger days having, in fact, been rather a
star of the county team for a couple of years in the late
1970s.

There would be no game that morning.

The windsock was out in one corner of the pitch, drooping
obscenely in the breeze-free day and a huge letter ‘H’ had been
unrolled, on one half of the pitch. That meant the Force helicopter
would be landing later. Henry drove past, not really registering
anything, then turned on to the driveway of the house which now
belonged to the Occupational Health & Welfare Unit
(OHWU).

He sat in the car for several minutes, blinking absently. The
cassette-player was turned up loud, blasting out the latest studio
album by the Stones. The songs perfectly matched the way Henry was
feeling, particularly the loud rocker called ‘Flip the Switch’; in
it, over Keith Richards’s harsh guitar chords, Mick Jagger sang
sneeringly about a guy being executed by electric chair,
encouraging the authorities to get the power turned on so that he
could get into the filthy pit of hell ... into which Henry firmly
believed he was stuck at that moment in time.

He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a bottle
of water, took a mouthful. For a few seconds, whilst rushing the
cool, apple-flavoured drink around his tongue, teeth and gums, his
mouth felt fresh. He swallowed; within moments the taste had
returned, making him retch.

Henry switched the engine off and got lethargically
out.

The sleek BMW was next to pull in through the gates of the
warehouse yard. Smith was operating the roller door, yanking the
chain quickly, making enough of a gap for the German car to drive
in. The door rolled shut as he released the chain.

Billy Crane directed the car across to the far side of the
warehouse.

Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov climbed out and walked back
towards Crane and Smith.

All were dressed in dark clothing and trainers. They looked
mean and ready for business, exuding the smell of
danger.

Crane eyed them through slitted lids, wondering, his nostrils
flaring, a sense of unease in him. . . He shook it off, smiled and
offered his hand to each of them in turn, welcoming them. He led
them into the office where he made coffee.

‘
How goes it?’ Thompson enquired.

‘
No problems,’ Smith replied. He checked his watch. ‘Plenty of
time yet.’

Not many minutes behind Henry Christie, Danny Furness also
arrived at Headquarters, driving her nippy little Mazda MX-5, a car
she had purchased following an insurance payout on her last car
which had been stolen and torched. She turned left, as Henry had
done, and drove past the OHWU just as Henry was walking up the
driveway towards the door of the unit. He was the last person Danny
expected to see. She thought he was still away working U/C. She saw
him, slammed on and pipped her horn to attract his attention,
waving madly - delightedly - at him. He frowned, a puzzled
expression on his face - and Danny covered her mouth in shock. He
peered towards her for a few moments, then realised who was honking
at him. He waved listlessly and approached her like it was a chore,
almost dragging his feet.

Danny wound her window down. She did her utmost to keep her
smile bright, when in fact she was severely appalled by the sight
of his face. He looked ten years older, haggard and very drawn and
grey. His skin hung loosely off his facial bones, his eyes were
surrounded by purple bags. His clothing seemed loose too, like he’d
lost an enormous amount of weight very quickly.

‘
Hi, Henry, what’re you up to?’ she asked brightly. The
question seemed to faze and embarrass him and throw him all at
once. He looked edgily round as though he needed to find a way of
escaping the situation, like a trapped animal.

‘
Mmm?’ he responded vaguely. It was obvious he could not think
of anything to say. Danny hoped her horror was not betrayed by her
expression. It was like being in the presence of an Alzheimer’s
sufferer. ‘I’m just going for one of them Healthline checks,’ he
said weakly. He was referring to the free, complete health and
fitness check offered by the OHWU to members of the
Force.

‘
Oh, right - good idea. I could do with one of them,’ Danny
said. She knew Henry was telling lies.

He pulled himself together a little. ‘You?’

‘
We’re having a big review of that triple murder and we’re
down at the Training School, using their facilities. It’s one of
those Where are we up to? Where’s it going? Why haven’t we solved
it yet? kind of things. Going to give ourselves a good whipping, I
expect. Come down after, if you fancy it. You’d be dead welcome.
Your ideas would be helpful.’

‘
I might at that,’ he said. His tone of voice told Danny it
was unlikely.

He tapped the roof of Danny’s car and gave her a pallid smile
before turning and walking away. He did not give her a backward
glance. Danny watched him go, very troubled. In that short exchange
she concluded it was not the Henry Christie she knew - and loved.
It was a pale shadow and she was intrigued to discover why that
was. Maybe he had suffered a bereavement or something - or had he
got some horrible disease? She clicked the car into first and drove
on down to the training school, her thoughts bursting with Henry
Christie.

Next through the warehouse gates was a beat-up Cavalier, its
exterior condition belying the fact that underneath the bonnet beat
a high-performance engine in prime mechanical condition. It pulled
up in one corner of the yard behind the hire car; two men jumped
out and made their way directly to the warehouse door which was
opened for them by Smith. These were Hawker and Price, the two who
had played such a big part in the abduction and murder of the
unfortunate Cheryl and Spencer. They had been well remunerated for
that job and had lain low since; today they expected to be paid
well enough to see them through the rest of their lives.

Smith indicated the office. Hawker and Price joined the
others, helping themselves to coffee.

Smith remained by the door, constantly checking his watch. If
things kept going as smoothly as this, another vehicle would be
arriving shortly. He smiled with satisfaction when a battered Ford
Transit trundled through the gates and manoeuvred into a position
ready to reverse into the loading bay. Smith already had his finger
on the door-open button.

The contents of the van were delivered quickly. Within minutes
the vehicle was leaving, the driver having seen only Smith, none of
the others. Smith wasn’t too bothered by this. After today,
remaining in England would be far too dangerous and unpredictable.
He had also made plans for the future.

When the loading-bay door closed, Smith called out, ‘You can
come out now.’

The rest of the team, Crane, Thompson, Elphick, Drozdov,
Hawker and Price, skulked out of the office.

Smith tossed each one of them a bundle wrapped in
polythene.

For Hawker, the package contained an exact copy of the uniform
worn by the guards of the security firm whose van they intended to
plunder later that day. It had been made to measure and was a
perfect fit, including a crash hat bearing the firm’s insignia,
overalls, socks and boots and bulletproof vest.

The others received their working clothes for the day ahead:
bulletproof vests, overalls, light steel toe-capped boots, black
ski masks and black jackets.

Smith looked at his watch again. Half an hour to the next
delivery.

It came bang on time.

A very new, flashy Volvo estate drove into the yard, swung
round and reversed up to the loading bay.

Again, everyone with the exception of Smith remained scarce as
the contents were hauled out by him and the lone driver. There was
no hanging about. Within seconds of completing the delivery, the
Volvo had disappeared down the road.

Once more the team emerged from hiding and milled around
Smith, gazing down at the equipment on the warehouse
floor.

Guns. Ammunition. Shock batons. Person-to-person
radios.

Smith, who had been basically acting as Quartermaster,
distributed the weaponry between each person according to the plan
he and Crane had put together. Soon each man was in his own little
concentration bubble, checking and loading.

Drozdov looked up. An Uzi machine pistol hung in his hand down
by one side, a pistol at the other.

‘
I think, gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘it is time we were told
the exact nature of the day ahead.’

Crane nodded. Drozdov was correct. The time had come to reveal
all.

The Murder Squad, under the watchful, facilitative eye of the
SIO, worked hard that morning, both as a big group in the assembly
hall at the Training School and in syndicates dotted around various
classrooms on the campus where they focused on particular aspects
of the triple murder. In essence they were having a ‘brain dump’,
collating and actioning ideas, ludicrous or otherwise, in an effort
to take the investigation further.

The team was willing but, as Danny noted glumly, it was fairly
short of experience of jobs like this, herself included. Most
members of the squad were Detective Constables, and Danny sighed a
few times when she gazed round at them; there were far too many
young ones for major investigations like this. One of the Detective
Inspectors was on the ‘fast track’, acquiring information for his
CV on the way up. Hysterically he did not even have an
investigative background; such were the philosophies of a police
service where it was believed entirely appropriate that if someone
possessed generic management skills they would be able to manage
anyone or any group of people in the Force. A completely ridiculous
ethos, of course. Ask anyone who has tried to manage a team of
grumpy detectives without the necessary background. Unless they
were exceptional people, they sank.

Danny despaired. The whole thing needed people with the
calibre, bottle, clout and experience of detectives like Henry
Christie; people who played the system but had the occasional
flashes of perception, intuition - whatever - that set them apart
from the crowd. And got results.

She saw her chance to make representations when ACC
Fanshaw-Bayley strolled cockily into the assembly hall, chatting to
the SIO. Someone like FB could get Henry on board.

Danny kept surreptitious tabs on FB’s progress. When it looked
as though he was about to take his leave, she moved away from the
group of detectives she was working with, sidled up alongside him
and gripped him.

‘
Sir?’

‘
Oh, hello young lady.’

Instantaneously she felt her skin creep. She detested the man.
He always rubbed her up the wrong way - intentionally or not, she
did not know. She had her suspicions that he was naturally a
chauvinistic pig.

‘
Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘
Have you got a moment, sir?’

‘
For you, Danny, I have many moments.’

I’ll bet you do, she thought. Don’t you ever learn? Danny knew
FB was facing an Industrial Tribunal hearing in the near future for
his sexist behaviour. She cut to the chase. ‘Did the SIO give you
the party line, or did you get the truth?’

‘
About what?’ He was intrigued.

‘
The state of this investigation. Did he come clean, or did he
bullshit you?’

FB blinked rapidly. His voice became serious. ‘I think you
should explain what you’re inferring.’

‘
OK - did he tell you that we expect to make an arrest very
soon or did he tell you the truth - that we’re basically getting
nowhere fast?’

FB’s political head slotted into place. ‘The conversation I
have just had with the SIO is confidential, as is the conversation
I’m having with you. Now what the hell are you talking
about?’

‘
What I’m trying to say is that we need better people on the
squad. This lot are OK,’ she gave a sweep of her hand, ‘but they’re
plodders and doers. We need some new blood on this if we intend to
crack it - because every day we don’t feel a collar, means that
whoever murdered those three people is one step further from our
grasp.’

‘
I thought you had a particularly good lead in
Tenerife?’

‘
I think I have - but I need help on it. Class help. Someone
like Henry Christie.’

FB snorted. ‘He’s off sick with some mysterious illness.
Doctor’s note says “General Debility” . . . soft sod. But yeah, he
would be good to have, I can’t disagree with that - but he’s off
sick, as I said.’

‘
I’ve seen him at Occupational Health this morning,’ Danny
said. Despite herself, she batted her eyelashes. ‘Could I ask him
if he’d be interested - and would you square it with the SIO if he
was?’