by Nick Oldham
Jacky Lee’s apartment was bright and beige, spotless and huge, typical of the kind of place inhabited by wealthy criminals without any specific taste in furniture, fittings, or art. Its immense size struck Henry as soon as he stepped out of the lift. It was his first time up here and he was impressed. In the dim, distant past, Henry had been to Lee’s family home, a farmhouse in the Northumbrian countryside which Jacky shared with his wife and kids.
At this moment, though, Lee was obviously not thinking too deeply about his wife. He was sitting at a smoked-glass-topped dining table dressed in a very short towelling robe which rode up to the top of his thighs. Henry hoped he was wearing underpants. Lee was stuffing a croissant into his mouth. Directly opposite him sat a stunning-looking woman with a wide, oval face, attired in an equally revealing robe sagging open at her chest, showing a deep cleavage. Henry thought she would have looked wonderful in just about anything.
‘Hey, Frank, you cunt!’ Lee shouted through his mouthful. ‘Get in here.’ He flapped his fingers at a spare chair at the table.
Henry slid off his jacket and tossed it over a coffee-table. He walked across the apartment, noting the view of the canal basin was tremendous now that it had been developed. He plonked himself confidently down on the chair and picked up a cup which he reckoned to wipe clean with his fingers. He reached for the coffee in a jug on a hot plate.
Lee wiped his mouth with a napkin.
‘Mornin’ Jacky,’ Henry said. It was actually a minute after noon. He nodded at the woman and was caught briefly - stunningly - by the flash of her wonderful wide brown eyes. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was already searingly jealous of Jacky Lee.
‘This is Natasha,’ Lee said. He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘And if you even think of laying a finger on her, you’ll have to answer to me.’ He laughed coldly.
‘The thought would never even enter my head,’ Henry reassured him, feeling uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t there. However, as Frank Jagger, he didn’t give a shit. Women were merely appendages in Jagger’s world. Something to be used and discarded. Something to have hanging from your arm. The prettier and dumber the better - but he guessed that Natasha was far from dumb.
Henry took a drink of coffee, his eyes playing over the rim of the big breakfast cup at Lee and his lady friend, wondering how he had allowed himself to be dragged into this game again.
He had only himself to blame. Two and a half months earlier he had been operating as a Divisionally based Detective Inspector in charge of reactive CID operations at Blackpool. He was a busy man. Sorting out the messy suicide of fellow DI Jack Sands as well as the aftermath of the murder of a paedophile, together with the escape from custody of a dangerous child murderer called Louis Vernon Trent who had consistently outmanoeuvred the police in their efforts to recapture him. And lots of other things. It was all fairly easy, undemanding work for a detective of his calibre, well within his capabilities.
Then, out of the blue, he got a call to attend Headquarters to see the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. It had actually been Fanshaw-Bayley, known in short as FB, who had summoned him personally by phone. Cagey and obtuse as ever, he had refused to tell Henry what he wanted to see him for. Just: ‘Get your arse across here now.’ FB was fondly regarded for his way with words.
Annoyed, frustrated - and not a little worried - Henry had done as bid. Summonses to parade on at HQ come few and far between. Usually they are for promotion or bollocking. Henry knew he was not going to be promoted ... and as he drove the twenty or so miles from Blackpool to Headquarters, just to the south of Preston, his heart was beating faster than it should have done. His mind kept asking, ‘What have you done this time, Henry?’
He was spirited quickly through FB’s secretary’s office into FB’s own palatial one, recently redecorated, overlooking the rugby pitch. FB was sitting behind his desk, wallowing in his new leather swivel chair. This was the man who, over the years, had caused Henry some grief and heartache. Henry did not like him at all, but suspected FB quite liked him in a perverted sort of way, although he did not often show it and usually treated Henry like shite.
On the other side of the desk was another man. Henry did not recognise him immediately.
‘Henry, what the fuck took you so long?’ FB said jovially and bounced up to his feet. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Davison from Greater Manchester Police.’
Henry shook the man’s hand, eyeing him uncertainly. Somewhere in the depths of his mind there was a vague tinge of familiarity.
‘Used to be one of us until he deserted ship,’ FB said.
‘Ahh.’ Henry released Davison’s hand. ‘I thought I recognised the face,’ he lied whitely. Actually he still had not placed him.
‘Our paths have crossed,’ Davison said worryingly.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ FB asked Henry.
‘Tea, please.’
FB pointed towards a spare chair. ‘Pull it up, sit down.’ He intercommed his secretary and ordered the beverages, sat down and leaned back, interlocking his fingers across his chest. He beamed at Henry. ‘Isn’t this nice?’
‘Er. . .’ Henry raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them and shrugged his shoulders. Not promotion, didn’t look like a bollocking. . . so what the hell was it? ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘Hang on, let’s get that brew first.’ On cue the office door opened and FB’s secretary bumbled in bearing a tray.
‘OK,’ said FB after his first sip of tea, ‘over to you, Rupert.’
He nodded at Davison.
‘Do the names Jacky Lee and Frank Jagger mean anything to you?’ Davison asked Henry.
Henry’s guts churned loudly at the mention, making him wish he’d had a bigger breakfast. His head dipped. ‘Jacky Lee is, or was, a good-class villain from the North-East. Dealt in anything going, mainly drugs and stolen booze and fags. He got put away in 1992 as a result of a chain of events kicked off by Frank Jagger.’ He paused. ‘I assume you know who Frank Jagger is?’ Henry’s suspicious eyes flickered to FB and back again to Davison, who was nodding.
‘I’ll come straight to the point, Henry,’ Davison said with a wide gesture indicating honesty. ‘Jacky Lee came out of prison in 1996 after serving four years of his eight-year sentence. He’s back on the streets, back in business and as ruthless as ever. On his release from prison he went back to Newcastle and wound down his businesses there, then moved his whole operation across the Pennines to Manchester, where he’s been up and running about eighteen months now. He left his wife and kids there, by the way.
‘About two months ago we found a body floating in the ship canal at Irlam, brains blown out. I am the Senior Investigating Officer on the enquiry. Turns out the body was a Geordie called Pasha, an Asian guy. We believe that Jacky Lee either killed, or contracted somebody to kill him because Lee thought - wrongly as it happens - that Pasha had grassed on him back in ‘92. We believe Lee lured him down from Newcastle on some pretext of doing business and murdered him. The word is now out on the streets that that is what happens when you inform on Jacky Lee.
‘Our problem, Henry, is that we can’t get close enough to Lee,’ Davison said. Now Henry could see what was coming. ‘There’s not even reasonable suspicion to arrest him for murder, and as far as I’m concerned, all conventional methods have been tried and failed and I’ve reached the point where I feel that the only way forwards is to re-introduce our undercover officer.’ Once again, Davison made an open gesture. This time it said, ‘Henry, you’re our man for this dirty business.’
Rather like wanting to be a Firearms Officer earlier in his career, the idea of becoming an undercover cop seemed like a good one to Henry at the time. The reality, however, did not match the macho dream, but by then it was too late. He was hobnobbing with criminals and he was good at it.
Henry had been a detective on the Regional Crime Squad (as it was then called) for about two years when he was asked if he had ever considered undercove
r work as an option. The idea grew on him. He’d already played the role of ‘test purchaser’ several times. That involved him simply buying goods that were being offered for sale by criminals, whether they be drugs or stolen property. He had found the experience exhilarating and the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself undercover work was right up his street.
After a rigorous selection procedure involving much psychometric and psychological testing, as well as practical exercises, he was chosen as the only one from thirty applicants to go forward into the actual role.
Following a further two-week course with much input, the first thing that happened to him was that he became two other people as comprehensive deep-cover identities were thrashed out, both going as far back as schooldays. In the trade, these are known as legends.
The first of these legends was Frank Jagger. Henry had been allowed to choose the name, something he had to feel comfortable with. He picked Frank because that was his late father’s name and Jagger because he was a sad die-hard Rolling Stones fan, sometimes much to his embarrassment.
Next, together with a couple of detectives who were experts in the field, he devised the background of the character, going all the way back to his schooldays in Blackburn. With knowledge and cooperation at the highest levels, bank accounts were opened, a National Insurance number issued, a passport too; jobs which Jagger had been in were manufactured; tax was paid - occasionally - photographs were professionally touched up, and eventually, when all these things, and more, were in place, all checkable and traceable histories, Frank Jagger stepped out into a hostile world as a wheeler-dealer travelling fence, operating right outside the law. . . and one of his debut jobs was to put the first nail into Jacky Lee’s coffin lid.
Lee was very high on the North-East Crime Squad’s target list for nefarious activities, including drug dealing, extortion, handling stolen property and pimping. All these activities were facilitated by means of a chain of pubs and clubs around that area of the country, and a few in Manchester. Every police operation against Lee had failed and it was only then, after every option had been tried, that Henry was brought in to bat. ‘U/Cs’, as they were referred to, are always the last resort because of the simple fact that every single day they are operating, their lives are at risk.
Getting to know Lee was a slow process. It involved being introduced to him by an informant who then took a step back. This was the most dangerous stage of any undercover operation. Lee was wary of all new faces, as most good-class crims are. But a slow process it had to be. Rather like eating an elephant: one mouthful at a time.
The occasional conversation led to an hour’s chat, from there to a night out. Henry could feel himself being tested all the time. The night out led to an evening meal at a Lee-owned restaurant where the subject of business was eventually broached. That was three months down the line. A period of time in which Henry had seen little of his wife and daughters.
The first thing Henry did for Lee was to obtain a truckload of stolen whisky for him. He sold it to Lee at £3 a bottle and Lee subsequently sold it on through his outlets, making massive profits. At least, Lee believed it was stolen. It was, in fact, legally purchased from a distillery in Scotland at a knock -down price, a transaction sanctioned with the full knowledge of the high management of the distillery. This kept everything legal from Henry’s point of view - a crucial consideration in the undercover game, because the officer must never be compromised in the eyes of the law.
That was Lee’s initial and very profitable nibble into what Frank Jagger had to offer. There then followed a series of transactions which Lee believed were dodgy, but were in fact as straight as a die.
It was important to keep Lee believing that Frank Jagger was totally and utterly reliable. So when the next undercover cop came on the scene, expertly and sneakily introduced by Henry, Lee’ had fallen into the beginning of a complex and brilliantly executed trap.
Nine months later when he was arrested on a multitude of conspiracy charges, he did not have a clue that the person to blame for it all - other than the original informant who had been well protected by the police operation - was none other than Frank Jagger. Four years in the slammer, brooding about which bastard had set him up, led him down a complete blind alley with the tragic result that he wiped out an innocent guy.
But no one stays an undercover cop if they don’t like it.
Not liking it makes them a liability to themselves and others.
Henry was not enamoured of the role.
Long spells away made his home life very difficult. His wife, Kate, having to manage two young daughters on her own, was struggling and becoming depressed. She was brave about it, denying there was a problem. Yet Henry could sense it, almost touch it, and when he was away he desperately missed them all.
Having had a very successful run at U/C work, he pulled out without loss of face.
Through his legends, though, he continued to exist as other people.
‘You want me to go back undercover?’ Henry croaked dryly.
The two higher-ranking officers nodded in unison.
‘Exactly,’ said Davison. ‘I know from my enquiries that you did a superb job last time, had Lee eating out of your hand. I’d like you to get back into his confidence, get him to admit the murder to you - and this time, you nail him.’
‘You’re the only one for the job,’ FB supported Davison. ‘The only one capable of pulling this off. Lee trusts you.’
Henry’s lips pouted sardonically. ‘You realise it’s very dangerous going back in, don’t you? It would have to be handled very carefully. I couldn’t just turn up on his doorstep and say, “Hiya Jacky, I’m back.” He’d be so suspicious. And the other thing is that working in Manchester could be really iffy for me. I’ve done a lot of straight-up detective work there when I was on the squad and the Manchester crims know me well. I could easily be compromised.’
‘I understand that,’ Davison said. ‘If you ever felt you were in danger, you could just pull out. Wouldn’t be a problem. I want a quick result anyway. Here, I’ve prepared these.’ He reached across to FB’s desk and slid a sheet of paper over to Henry.
Henry made no move to take the paper. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘A list of questions I’d like you to ask Lee.’
Aghast, Henry held up both hands and said, ‘No!’ sharply. ‘I don’t want to see them.’ He wasn’t all that surprised that the higher-ranking officer had suggested such a stupid thing; most had limited dealings with undercover cops and had unreasonable expectations of them and knew little about how they actually operated.
‘I don’t want to see them,’ he reiterated, ‘nor do I want to hear anything further about the police operation against Lee. You must understand that if I say I’ll go back in, you’ll have to leave everything to me. There cannot be a timescale and there can’t be any set questions and I can’t know anything about the investigation.’
‘Why not?’ Davison asked crossly.
‘Because there has to be a natural course of events. Just supposing I let slip something that can only have come from a police source. Jacky Lee’d have me strung up before I finished talking. Undercover work is an art, a craft, and it can’t be rushed. If you want to push things along, then I can’t do it for you.’
‘So you will do it?’ Davison now became eager.
‘I don’t know yet ... let me have a think.’ Henry excused himself and drifted down to the Headquarters canteen for a lone cup of tea.
There was no doubt about it - he didn’t really want to go back undercover. Yet the thought of it excited him. It was a challenge, a dangerous one. And there was something else playing in the background which actually made the offer irresistible: it would give him an excuse to get away from home, give him time to think, mull over things that were happening to him and get his head together one way or the other. See if what he thought he was feeling was really true, or was it just a passing fad which would go away. Distance fr
om the problem would enable him, he hoped, to put things into perspective.
Wrongly - and Henry knew it was outrageously wrong – it was his personal circumstances which swung it for him.
He went back to FB’s office and announced, ‘I’ll do it.’
Both officers looked relieved.
‘Have you got a pocket book for me?’ Henry asked Davison, who looked blankly at him.
‘Why? Won’t your normal one do?’
‘Undercover officers have a unique one, issued at the beginning of any operation,’ Henry said slowly, trying not to show his impatience. ‘The first page of it has some instructions which you need to read aloud to me, make sure I understand them and sign them as Frank Jagger.’
‘Oh,’ said Davison, stumped, betraying a further lack of knowledge of undercover policing which Henry found slightly disconcerting. He was not terribly impressed with Davison who, it seemed, had risen through the ranks very quickly indeed. ‘I’ll get you one,’ he said hurriedly.
Later, when Henry told Kate that he had taken on this new U/C job, there was a storming row between them. She did not want him to go back to such work, did not trust him being away from home for such lengthy periods. Their marriage, she pointed out, had enough sticking plasters over the cracks and was ready to bleed again.
But Henry went anyway because he knew that in so doing he would either repair the marriage or break it for good. He needed to know in his own mind which way to go.
Now, ten weeks later, sitting at the breakfast table with Jacky Lee, Henry realised that he hadn’t phoned home for three days, not even when he’d had the opportunity. It was getting harder and harder to talk to Kate . . . Shit, he cursed, shaking domestic thoughts from his mind, and placed his coffee cup down.