The Last Big Job (55 page)

Henry’s eyes took in the frame of the Russian coming at him,
a wild, murderous look on his face. And he did hesitate. The
conscience of a cop gnawing at him, wondering how he would be able
to justify killing an unarmed man. But then he saw the stiletto
blade in Ivankov’s right palm. How had that got there? Where had it
come from? Down the sleeve!
He was no
longer unarmed. He was capable of murder.

Henry’s mind processed all these thoughts in the fraction of a
second before his finger jerked back on the trigger. The bullet
struck Ivankov in the cleft of skin just below the Adam’s apple,
ripping out his throat. The energy from the impact contorted his
body obscenely in mid-air.

Henry rolled to one side and the Russian slammed down heavily
on to the bed beside him, where he lay twitching like a huge fish
in a fast-spreading pool of blood, which soaked into the covers. He
twitched for a long time and Henry watched, both fascinated and
repulsed. A man dying, only inches away from him. A man he had
killed.

When the Russian stopped moving, Henry exhaled, slumped on to
his back, breathless, and attempted to regain control.

He was still on the bed, the Russian lying next to him.
Dead.

He got to his feet and looked down at Loz who was whimpering
quietly like a kicked dog. His eyes were closed and he lay coiled
in the foetal position, prostrate in a lake of his own blood. He
was in urgent need of medical attention.

Still quivering, Henry turned slowly round and looked towards
Danny, lying spreadeagled on the floor on the other side of the
bed. Unmoving. His legs buckled, a hand grasping at his short hair
in a gesture of anguish as a terrible realisation hit him. He tried
to say the word, ‘Danny,’ but no sound came from his
lips.

Slowly, he circled the bed and sank to his knees, next to her.
His fingertips reached slowly to stroke her pretty, flushed cheek,
but he knew she was dead. Her neck had been broken with ruthless
efficiency by the most dangerous man he had ever met.

Epilogue

Externally, for the next six weeks, Henry Christie remained a
fully functioning Detective Inspector, dealing with everything in a
cool, professional manner.

There were many issues to resolve.

Firstly, the Spanish authorities refused to release Danny’s
body for five weeks. The circumstances of her death and the manner
of it, as well as the death of Ivankov and the serious wounding of
Lawrence Brayfield, caused uproar. Many questions were asked, most
went unanswered. Bureaucracy was unleashed on an almighty scale and
had to be addressed and managed by Henry who was well in the thick
of it. He was accused of murder himself at the beginning, though
never arrested, then accused of conspiracies, then corruption,
until eventually he persuaded his Spanish inquisitors, by his
openness, frankness and honesty, that he had simply been in the
wrong place at the wrong time, as had Danny. He had done what had
to be done - an act of self-defence which had saved his own life,
but not that of his colleague.

In the end, because it didn’t look as though Danny’s body
could ever be released, he made a plea to the Foreign Office; he
didn’t give a shit about himself, but Danny’s devastated parents
were being messed about from pillar to post by the Spanish police
and enough was enough. Keeping her body in the freezer would
achieve nothing. He begged the FO to intervene and pull some
strings. . . and incredibly, they did. From a high level, the order
came down for her body to be returned and at last, the parents
could have some sort of closure. Henry had met Danny’s mother and
father during this period and he became a crutch for them, a role
which put him under massive personal pressure. He desperately
wanted to blab his relationship with their daughter to them, but
felt he could not, for her sake. That would have put them over the
edge, after all the business with Jack Sands, her ex-lover, topping
himself not many months before. Another relationship with a married
man. . . Henry could have imagined their reactions.

And while all this was going on, there was the question of
Billy Crane to sort out, which also fell to Henry.

The day after Danny’s death, a specially trained armed unit of
the Spanish police carried out a pre-dawn raid at Crane’s Gomerian
villa.

As is so often the case in such matters, the actual laying of
hands on Billy Crane was a very subdued affair, an anti-climax. He
was roused from bed by four armed officers and submitted dazedly to
their pidgin-English instructions. He offered no resistance, but
maintained his silence other than to demand the services of a
lawyer. At Tenerife he was incarcerated awaiting extradition
proceedings. His slick brief, a man who was used to representing
British felons in Spain - usually on the Costas - presented all
types of delaying tactics. Henry doubted whether he would see Crane
in the UK this side of six months.

The location of the stolen money remained a mystery. Despite
the efforts of Lancashire Constabulary’s Financial Investigators
and those from the Metropolitan Police and Interpol, and a raiding
party on all the bank accounts belonging to Billy Crane, the money
was not recovered. Crane’s accounts did reveal £3.1 million from
drugs dealing, and proceedings were instituted to freeze the money
and ultimately seize it. As the weeks went by, though, the
likelihood of finding the money from the heist seemed less and less
probable.

What did seem likely was that Lawrence Brayfield, once he had
recovered from his shoulder wound, would leave Tenerife, go into a
witness protection programme and in the due course of time - after
he had successfully given evidence against Crane - receive his
reward money.

It was during the course of one of Henry’s many conversations
with Loz that he was reminded, purely by chance, of the existence
of Nero the lion. Henry had charged out of the hospital ward and
raced to Uncle B’s where he found the emaciated, barely-living
animal, surviving against the odds in a disgusting shit-hole. The
Spaniards immediately wanted to have him destroyed, but Henry was
in no mood for another unnecessary death, nor the possibility of
litigation that might follow; the police had a duty of care for
prisoners’ property and the destruction of Nero could easily have
been used as another delaying tactic by Crane’s legal
eagle.

A place was found for Nero in a private zoo on Lanzarote where
after only a few days’ recuperation he established himself as the
dominant male in the resident pride, beat the living daylights out
of the incumbent king, and claimed several lionesses in a mad whirl
of sexual domination. . . so there was one happy ending at
least.

And while all this was going on, the internal structure of
Henry Christie, delicately balanced at the best of times, was close
to collapse.

He was only grateful that he had to spend a great deal of time
commuting backwards and forwards to Tenerife. Time spent with his
wife and daughters was proving so difficult for him. Kate remained
supportive but slightly aloof and he once caught her looking at
him, on one of his infrequent visits home in those weeks, rather
contemptuously. He wondered if she knew, or suspected, about him
and Danny. Had she guessed? Or had it been so obvious that a blind
person could have read the signs?

The time he had in Tenerife was busy, but this was the only
opportunity he had to be alone to grieve for the woman who, rightly
or wrongly, had grown on him and with whom he had fallen in love.
His hotel rooms became places of retreat, for crying, for heavy
drinking, for thinking and coming to terms with her death, knowing
he could never tell anyone about their relationship; knowing he
somehow had to pick up the pieces of his life and make a decision
about the future and leave Danny behind. Easy to say, not so easy
to put into practice - particularly having discovered something
that completely blitzed his mind during Danny’s autopsy, something
he prayed would not become general knowledge.

She was cremated one week after her body had been flown back
from Tenerife, six weeks to the day after her death. The service
took place in a crematorium outside Burnley in East Lancashire, the
town of her birth, not far away from the dinosaur-like bulk of
Pendle Hill. There was a huge police presence. The Chief Constable
attended and several of the ACCs, including Fanshaw-Bayley. Karl
Donaldson, Henry’s friend from the FBI office in London, also came,
having met Danny previously on another enquiry.

Henry was relieved when it was over. Kate sidled up next to
him, hugged him and looked up with a hesitant smile. There were
tears in her eyes. Henry responded with a weak grin. He knew things
had moved on too far for him to slip back into his old life. He had
fallen deeply in love with Danny, and her death had devastated him.
Some major decisions were now due to be made about his future.
Being with Kate felt wrong, somehow - for both of them - but in his
grieving state, the phrasing of the sentence with the word
‘divorce’ in it eluded him.

Most of the police contingent from Blackpool had come to the
funeral by coach. As is the fairly cold culture of the police on
such occasions, they stopped off on their way back at a pub on the
outskirts of Blackpool to pay their last respects to Danny by way
of alcoholic consumption. Henry, Kate and Donaldson - who was
staying overnight at the Christies’ - having driven across to
Burnley by car, decided to join them. Kate generously offered to
drive the rest of the way home so that Henry had the chance to have
a few drinks.

By the time they arrived, the coach had de-bussed and there
was a deep throng of thirsty people crowded round the bar of the
unsuspecting pub. Somewhere amongst them FB could be heard
demanding that he be bought drinks by his detectives.

After getting their own drinks, Henry, Kate and Donaldson
claimed a quiet spot in the bar where they could hear themselves
talk. Kate excused herself and went to the Ladies’. After
a few moments, Donaldson needed to go too - and
suddenly Henry found FB sitting next to him, a drink in each
hand.

‘
Quick chat, Henry.’ Someone put some money in the jukebox and
loud music began to pound. FB leaned towards Henry’s right ear.
‘Just want to bring you up to date with Rupert Davison.’

In the scheme of things, Davison had receded to mean nothing
to Henry. In fact, he had virtually forgotten the man. However, he
feigned interest in what FB was saying.

‘
Suspended on full pay,’ the ACC informed him. ‘Big internal
enquiry going on - the missing interview tapes and all that.
Apparently the rubber heel squad’ - by which FB meant Complaints
and Discipline - ‘did a telephone check on him for the night you
got blown out of the water by Elphick. Davison made a call to Gary
Thompson’s mobile number. Obviously we don’t know what was said,
but it’s pretty incriminating; and there’s also video tape footage
of him stealing the tapes from the Custody Office, from the camera
in there, so the Custody Sergeant’s in the clear and Rupert’s in
the shit. Add that to what he said to you in the LEC and I think
he’s for the high-jump.’

‘
And no doubt he’ll end up getting a slap on the wrist and a
transfer to some piss-easy office job,’ Henry growled
bitterly.

‘
You’re such a cynic, Henry. Anyway, don’t be surprised if you
get called as a witness against him at some stage.’

‘
I won’t. Thanks for letting me know, boss.’

FB took a swig of one of his drinks. ‘By the way. . .’ He
tapped his nose. ‘I got to see the full post-mortem report of DS
Furness.’ He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘Secret’s safe with
me.’ He gave Henry a big wink, stood up and walked away.

Kate Christie hated using lavatories in public houses, but at
least the cubicle she entered was clean. As she locked the flimsy
door and sat down, she heard two women come into the toilets. She
did not recognise their voices, but it was obvious they were part
of the police contingent from Blackpool, probably two policewomen.
They had come in to freshen up, not to pee, and they stood at the
wash-basins, preening themselves in the mirrors as they
chatted.

The memory of the conversation Kate Christie overheard
remained clear in her mind long afterwards, and formed the basis of
the divorce papers which were later served on Henry Christie, her
cheating husband.

This is what Kate heard.

‘
God, that was really, really sad.’

‘
Yeah, tragic. Dead nice she was, Danny.’

‘
What a way to go, though.’

‘
Yeah, ‘orrible. Really, really sad.’

‘
At least she died happy.’

‘
Why do you say that?’

‘
Well, I head she was having an affair with Henry Christie. So
- she was out in Tenerife with him and they must’ve combined work
with shagging.’

‘
God, I didn’t know that ... but he is a bit of all right,
isn’t he? I’d let him fuck my brains out.’

‘
Me too. He’s shagged a few, y’know... and I’ve heard
something else too - but you mustn’t tell anyone.’

‘
Go on. I won’t.’