The Last Big Job (39 page)

And that second stop would be on the southbound motorway
service area near Lancaster, formerly - and more widely - known as
Forton Services. It was here that Hodge would be given specific
instructions to follow before continuing southwards. The robbery,
he had been told by Smith, would actually take place at the gates
of the security waste disposal company in Stafford, but the stop at
Lancaster was necessary in order to make contact and confirm
everything was going to plan.

Hodge tried to relax as he drove. He engaged in the inane
banter of his colleagues and kept his mind focused on not betraying
anything to them.

But try as he might, he could not keep his mind off the
passport and tickets which Don Smith was holding for him which
would fly him firstly to Amsterdam, then on to Rome and from there,
via the Middle East, to Australia, where, twenty-five million
pounds richer, he would live a life of splendour and
indulgence.

Chapter Sixteen

Each year one of the main political parties comes to Blackpool
to hold its annual conference, usually at the beginning of October.
The policing operation which services these conferences is
phenomenal, costing millions of pounds. The public only see the
visible side of the operation when the conferences are up and
running, when normal day-to-day life in the resort is massively
disrupted. That part is only a fraction of a huge enterprise which
commences many months earlier, when much repetitive, mind-blowing
legwork is done.

Since the bombing of the Tory Party hotel in Brighton in 1984,
the security of delegates, whether in government or otherwise, is
at the top of the policing agenda. One of the ways in which this is
achieved is by vetting. This means doing background checks on
hundreds of people including staff employed at the Winter Gardens -
which is the actual venue of the conferences - and of the employees
at the main hotels where delegates stay during conference
week.

It is tedious work, often producing nothing remotely exciting,
but it has to be done.

At the hotels it is not only the staff who are checked out.
Every guest registered in the preceding year is also checked. The
rationale behind this is simple. As bomb-making technology
improves, devices which can be planted months, even years, before
they are due to explode can be placed in rooms to detonate during
conference week, at night, when the delegates are most likely to be
in their rooms.

Each guest, unless known, is a potential terrorist and needs
to be checked out and vetted.

This is something that Billy Crane and Don Smith had not taken
into account when the former booked into the Imperial Hotel under
an assumed name and paid cash for his stay; and the latter paid for
a meal with his own Barclaycard.

Every name is checked out and any which are suspect will soon
start to flash red in the system.

DC Rik Dean, seconded for a six-month period to the vetting
team, was sitting in a very cramped office in Blackpool Central
police station, checking and cross-checking paperwork, when the
phone rang next to him. He picked it up. ‘Conference Planning,
Vetting Team, Rik Dean, can I help you?’ he answered
blandly.

‘
Rik, it’s me - Danny Furness.’

Rik’s stomach did a hop, skip and a twirl. The back of his
neck reddened. He swallowed. ‘Hello, Danny,’ he whispered timidly,
mouth dry, vividly remembering leaving her high, dry, gasping and
unsatisfied on her kitchen floor simply because he’d been spooked
by the thought of screwing in the same location as a
suicide.

Danny tried to sound bright and unconcerned. ‘How are
you?’

‘
All right, I suppose.’

‘
About the other night, Rik. Forget it. No hard feelings, not
a problem.’

‘
Yeah, sure, whatever.’ God, he almost choked when he thought
about the opportunity missed. It had been there on a plate. ‘Maybe
some other time?’ he ventured hopefully.

‘
I don’t think so,’ she said, still bright, failing to add,
You missed your chance, tosspot. ‘I was a bit out of my head and it
probably wouldn’t have been the right thing for us anyway, don’t
you think?’

‘
Yeah, yeah,’ he said sonorously.

‘
Rik, what I’m phoning about is - when we were talking the
other night in the club, you mentioned you were on the vetting team
and that something interesting had been thrown up from the Imperial
Hotel. Something about a guy ... now correct me if I’m wrong, Rik,
because I was totally pissed when you were telling me this and most
of it went over my head. . . something about a guy who seems to
have given false details when he was staying at the hotel, who
stayed for one night, paid cash, and had dinner with another guy
who visited him. This second guy - again correct me if I’m wrong -
was called Don Smith. He used a credit card in that name. Am I
right?’

‘
Yes, you are. I don’t even remember telling you.’

‘
Shows how bladdered you were, too. Tell me about
it.’

‘
This fella books into the hotel into one of the best suites.
Has dinner with this Don Smith character and leaves the morning
after. We run all the normal checks and it transpires the address
he gave does not exist - some street in Blackburn that was
demolished years ago.’

‘
What’ve you done about it?’

‘
Tried to get hold of Don Smith, but we haven’t been able to
do so yet. His credit-card address relates to an office in
Blackpool which just seems to be a place where post gets
sent.’

‘
Have you any idea who the other guy is?’

‘
Not yet. The one called Smith is a local Lancashire villain
from Blackburn. We got his details from the credit-card company,
but haven’t been able to pin him down at this address yet. It’s a
mystery, but we’re not too concerned about it. There doesn’t seem
to be a terrorist link, which is what we’re really concerned about,
obviously.’

‘
Has the suite been used since? The one Mr Unknown
used?’

‘
I imagine so. You thinking about fingerprints?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
It’ll have been cleaned if nothing else, so I doubt whether
it would be worth dusting. What’s all this about,
Danny?’

‘
Not sure yet. Possibly a connection with the triple
murder.’

‘
Oh, right,’ Rik said, interested.

Danny shuffled her thoughts. ‘What I’m going to do is this,
Rik - and bear with me please, because I’m just following a hunch
here. I’m going to get a motorcyclist to pick up a mugshot of a guy
from here at Headquarters and I’ll
ask him
to drop it off with you.’ She was already thinking ahead to losing
a case because of lax procedure, so she wanted this done correctly.
‘You go to the CID office and get a book of photographs similar to
the one I’ve sent and slot it in. Then go over to the hotel and ask
the waiters to have a look through the book. See if they pick out
the guy. Do it properly. Record it all on the right forms and don’t
prompt - that’s important. In the meantime I’m going to get Scenes
of Crime to go over that suite. You never know. Any
questions?’

‘
No, but I love it when you’re authoritative.’

‘
Rik, honey. . . I could’ve been all yours, but you blew
it.’

Danny hung up and rubbed her hands. All she needed to do now
was root out a photo of Billy Crane which even though it would be a
dozen years old would have to do. Beggars could not be
choosers.

She dashed back to see Henry.

Colin Hodge checked the time. It was 2.30 p.m. now and he was
approaching the North Lancaster exit of the M6, about six miles
away from the service area. He had been instructed to try to arrive
at the services about 2.45 p.m., to fit in with the ‘bigger
picture’, whatever that meant. Once at the services, he had been
told to go to the gents’ toilets where Smith would be waiting; the
latter would brief him about the next stage of events. Hodge would
then continue his journey south - or so he believed.

Hodge was keeping the security van at a constant 55 mph, but
he relaxed his right foot ever so slightly to reduce the speed by a
couple of sly notches without alerting his companions. He did not
want to be too early. He wanted everything to work perfectly on
this, the first day of the rest of his life.

The van drove past Junction 34 and the road began to rise. On
the right was the fencing which surrounded Lancaster Farms, the
Young Offenders’ Institute. Beyond that was the monstrosity that
was Lancaster Moor Hospital. Then there was the wonderful monument
in Williamson Park which rose up like a mini Taj Mahal.

Hodge groaned, flinched and leaned forwards, wrapping an arm
around his stomach.

‘
Guts again?’ he was asked.

‘
Yeah,’ he rasped, feigning pain. ‘I feel another shit coming
on - and soon.’

‘
There’s some services not far off. Pull in there.’

‘
Either that or I’m going to have to drop my keks on the hard
shoulder.’

Five miles south, they were waiting for him.

Each man was growing more and more tense and nervous. Chewing
gum rapidly. No talking. Waiting. Shallow breathing. Nostrils
flaring. Eyes flickering across the service area, checking for
unwanted visitors. Feet tapping. Fingers flexing. Sweat
dribbling.

Hawker and Price were in the cab of the Leyland Sherpa which
was squeezed between two very long, high-sided heavy goods vehicles
parked on the outer rim of the HGV parking area. The vehicle on
their right was a 1993 Leyland-DAF Curtainside, over 55 feet in
length; on the other side was an ERF Curtainside of similar
proportions. Both dwarfed the Sherpa between them, like two big
brothers protecting the baby. They were stolen vehicles, on false
plates, and had been positioned and left there earlier on the
instructions of Don Smith.

Billy Crane was sitting in the cab of the ERF, constantly
looking round, glancing in the big side mirrors, mouth dry, palms
wet inside the disposable gloves he was wearing.

Smith and Gunk Elphick were in one of the Audi sports cars,
parked in such a position that they could see every vehicle coming
off the motorway on to the service area. They did not speak to each
other.

Drozdov and Thompson were in the other Audi, parked close by
to the HGVs.

Crane checked his watch. ‘Any sign yet?’ he asked shortly over
the radio.

‘
Nothing yet,’ Smith responded.

Crane sat back, tried to relax. A tight smile came to his
lips. He was aware that the police in Lancashire were going to be
somewhat diverted over the next few minutes.

‘
You see, you’re fantastic,’ Danny said brightly. She and
Henry were walking by the rugby pitch outside the Headquarters
building, back to their cars. The Force helicopter was still on the
grass, unattended, looking slightly lost and forlorn with its
drooping rotor-blades.

Danny glanced sideways at Henry. He seemed to have drifted
away again, back to that distant world in which he seemed to be
spending his time. She hadn’t yet broached the subject of why he
had really been visiting the Occupational Health Unit.

‘
Just a few minutes with you and there’s already two extra
names in the hat. If you are interested,’ she hesitated here
slightly, ‘Fanshaw-Bayley is willing for you to join the Murder
Squad.’

They had reached the tennis courts; Danny’s car was parked a
few yards down the track next to them. Henry turned to
her.

‘
How do you know that?’ He stopped walking.

‘
Because I already suggested it to him.’

Henry’s jawline hardened. A glaze of anger crossed his face.
‘Oh? And did you check with me before you started meddling with my
career?’

Danny’s mouth popped open. Nothing came out of it.

‘
I think it might have been prudent, don’t you?’ he said with
hostility.

She closed her mouth. It became a tight, thin line. Her eyes
criss-crossed his face. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We need
someone like you on the investigation.’

‘
You thought wrong. In
future leave
well alone, you interfering cow!’

‘
I bloody will.’ She pushed past him furiously, strode the few
paces to her car, halted abruptly and spun round, shaking her head.
‘You’ve gone really odd, Henry. I don’t know what’s got into
you.’

‘
No,’ he said, ‘you don’t know, do you?’

‘
Fuck you,’ she rasped and continued to her car, fumbling for
her keys, tears having formed in her eyes.

‘
Your pitiful security has been breached,’ the husky voice on
the telephone informed the switchboard operator at Headquarters
Control Room. ‘There is a bomb in your building and it will explode
within fifteen minutes. This is not a hoax call.’

Speechless for the briefest of moments, the telephonist said,
‘Can you be more specific, please?’

‘
Sure - you’ve got a bomb under your arse, bitch.’ Click.
Phone dead.