The Last Big Job

by Nick Oldham

  Immediately to her left was a door marked Storeroom. In front of her was a rickety wooden staircase leading up to an office above the store. She could hear voices and movement up there. She ignored that and looked around the garage again. It was a typical backstreet set-up. Tools scattered around. Cutting and welding gear. Tyre-repair equipment. Oily floors. A dirty sink. A kettle and grubby cups. An old radio with a circular tuning dial. Overalls hung up on hooks. Copies of the Sun on a work-bench. A disgusting four-year-old calendar on the wall.

  And a vehicle inspection pit.

  Two chairs were set near to it, one with a puddle on it, the other smeared with what was obviously excrement. A metal pipe lay discarded on the floor, next to the chairs. Two planks of wood had been placed parallel to the pit, one lying on top of the other.

  Think evidence preservation, Danny instructed herself.

  She had been informed there were three bodies in the pit, all with head wounds, probably caused by a firearm. The oily floor surrounding the pit - surely a health and safety hazard - had shoeprints in it. They could be vital. Danny wondered if she really needed to go and look into the pit at this stage of the game and risk ruining evidence. Obviously police officers had been to peer in prior to her arrival, so did she really need to add her footprints as well?

  As senior officer on the scene, she decided she did. She bit her bottom lip, considering how best to do this without destroying evidence.

  In the end she decided that no one else who was not essential to the investigation would enter the premises. Bobbies were nosy by nature, but they would have to be kept at bay. Secondly, she would indicate a route to the edge of the vehicle inspection pit which everyone would use until all the necessary surrounding evidence had been lifted.

  She leaned back out of the door and spoke to the PC who was acting as doorman. ‘No one else comes in here, Tom. My orders - no one. Got that?’ He nodded. ‘Go to the CID car and get that roll of cordon tape from the passenger footwell, please.’

  Danny decided on the route to the pit - a straight line from the door which she marked by laying two lengths of cordon tape parallel to each other on the floor, about a foot apart. When the path was marked she walked down it and peered into the dark pit which was about four and a half feet deep.

  Her eyes closed momentarily. ‘Oh, Cheryl,’ she said sadly, ‘just what I feared. Shit!’ She shuddered a deep sigh of revulsion and squatted down on her haunches, spending several quiet minutes in that position, gazing down at the three bodies lying one on top of another. Initially she had been looking through sheer fascination, then her detective mind clicked in and took her on to analysis and evidence.

  ‘Hell of a sight for a woman to see,’ a voice said behind her. Danny recognised the dulcet tones of Dave Seymour, one of the detectives on her team. He was very close to retirement, had been on CID for most of his service and was one of the most persuasive arguments for disbanding the whole department. He was everything that was bad about the CID: overweight, sexist, racist, homophobic, narrow-minded and difficult to supervise. Henry Christie could get Seymour eating out of his hand; Danny, however, had a lot to prove to Seymour and the biggest hurdle she faced was that she was a woman. And women should not be detectives, particularly not Detective Sergeants - at least, as far as Seymour was concerned. ‘Let’ em do what they’re good at,’ he often said. ‘Looking after kids and brewing up.’

  Danny rose to her feet and noticed Seymour was standing outside the path margins. She knew, however, he had been up in the office talking to the garage proprietor, Peter Maynard. Danny scanned Seymour. In response to his opening remark, she said, ‘Yes, Dave, you are a hell of a sight, but you’ve got to make the best of what God gives you.’

  Seymour’s mouth dropped. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, sweetheart.’ She gave him a triumphant grin, then indicated the cordon tape. ‘This is the route to the scene from the door, Dave. For the time being, until somebody tells us different, that’s what we’ll all keep to. What does the owner have to say?’

  ‘Denies all knowledge, as he would. Says no one but himself has keys to the place and he doesn’t recognise any of the deceased.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘No. First of all, there’s no sign of a forced entry, which tells me the place was either left open, or someone does have the keys. Secondly, he’s a fly bastard - but he’s very, very nervous.’

  ‘As he should be . . . he’s our first suspect. Let’s speak to him in the five-star comfort of the copshop.’ Danny raised her eyebrows, then had a thought. Her original intention had been to take Peter down to the station. That, however, presented problems in terms of dealing with him thoroughly. If he was not under arrest, he had the right to get up and walk away at any point if he so wished. It would be better if he was arrested. That way he couldn’t go anywhere, and it gave the police more powers to search and seize evidence, including bodily fluids and tissue - which might be a good idea. ‘Lock him up,’ she told Seymour.

  ‘Will do.’ He made his way back up the rickety wooden staircase to the office. It creaked under his weight.

  Danny mulled over what she had got so far; pretty soon she would have to be briefing senior officers.

  Three bodies in a vehicle inspection pit. All naked, with apparent gunshot wounds to the head. Two of the deceased known to Danny. Local thieves and druggies, and Cheryl a failed drug importer. The third body was that of an unidentified male, maybe late forties.

  Danny already knew of a good reason for the deaths of Cheryl and Spencer: ruthless drug dealers who did not take kindly to the loss of about fifty grand’s worth of junk. Danny would be very surprised if the killing turned out to be for anything other than that. That, therefore, would definitely be one avenue for the investigation. Another would be identifying the other man; once that was done, other ways forward might spring up.

  The other line of enquiry would be through the owner of the garage. Who is he? What’s his background? Who are his associates? Digging into his ribs could prove extremely profitable indeed.

  Then there was the scientific evidence, not forgetting that Cheryl’s flat would need to be thoroughly examined by Search and Forensic teams now.

  The office door opened at the top of the stairs, and Seymour led out a man with thick, straggly, oily hair, shoulder-length, wearing a pair of dirty overalls. Peter Maynard. He was about to begin helping the police with their enquiries. He looked exactly as Danny had expected.

  Seymour led him out of the garage without a word.

  Danny walked to the edge of the inspection pit once more and looked down at the three bodies lying one on top of the other. She was reminded of a Nazi war grave.

  It made her realise just how dangerous the people behind this were.

  Chapter Nine

  At noon on Monday, the third day of his ‘holiday’, Colin Hodge awoke with the most terrifying hangover of his life, brought on by over-indulgence on San Miguel beer and cheap whisky. The bedroom of the apartment was in darkness, with the exception of slits of light filtering in through the cracks and between the curtains. The room was very untidy now. Clothes, plates and beer bottles were strewn around. Hodge slowly eased himself into a sitting position, desperate not to dislodge the ball bearings which seemed to be rolling around at the back of his eyes.

  He breathed deeply and was nearly sick there and then, but he kept hold of it. The woman next to him in the bed groaned in her sleep. Hodge squinted at her. She was past her prime and not exactly on the petite side, but the previous night had verged on the incredible. Hodge touched his cock, which felt tender. It had been well abused.

  He swung his legs out of the low bed, placing his feet on the cold floor tiles.

  He could tell it was another hot day in Tenerife. So far over the weekend he had not seen much of the daytime, but was determined that he would get some sunbathing done today. Pointless to be here on a freebie and not get the benefit of the sun’s h
armful rays. He stumbled out of the bedroom and tottered into the bathroom where he had a long shower. He wondered when they would come for him. Apart from anything else he was running low on his cash reserves. He needed a peseta injection.

  As he stooped to soap down his legs, the shower curtain drew back. The woman had woken. She stepped in to join him.

  Hodge was correct: it was hot in Tenerife. Baking hot at Reina Sofia Airport where Billy Crane waited impatiently for the passengers to filter out from the recently arrived flight from Manchester.

  Don Smith was first one through, carrying only an overnight bag and a briefcase.

  They shook hands and left the terminal building, climbing into the rear seats of a Ssang Yong four-wheel-drive monstrosity waiting for them. It was driven by Loz, Crane’s business partner and lion hors d’ oeuvre. His injured left hand was strapped up in a dirty-looking bandage and was resting. between his thighs. The vehicle was an automatic with power steering and he was able to drive safely enough with just his right hand. When the two passengers were settled into the back seat, Loz pulled away.

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Cramped as fuck,’ Smith complained. He rolled his neck, which creaked. He had managed to squeeze in on a spare seat on a holiday charter flight. ‘My arse is still asleep.’

  ‘Where are we up to with our friend?’

  ‘Checked him out.’ Smith positioned his briefcase on his lap and snapped it open. He extracted a file of papers which he handed to Crane.

  ‘Give me the gist,’ Crane said. He would read the file later.

  Loz shifted slightly and cocked an ear rearwards.

  ‘OK, the gist is that Colin Hodge is a bit of a sad bastard. He lives alone at an address in Bispham, north of Blackpool. Semi-detached house, forty grand mortgage, negative equity. Wife pissed off about two years ago, shacked up with some guy who guts chickens in a factory, which kind of indicates just how much of a boring twat Hodge is. Been working for the same security firm for eight years as a guard. Been robbed once - on a collection in Carlisle. Just dropped the money and shat himself, apparently. No bottle. Gets paid a pittance - something like five or six quid an hour; has to work all the hours God sends to pick up anything approaching a decent pay packet. Has a girlfriend ... some slag who works behind the bar at his local club. Most of the adult male population of Bispham have been through her, apparently.’

  ‘Why’s he gone bad?’

  Smith shrugged. ‘I suppose carting millions around and getting paid fuck-all for it might have something to do with it. But I’d say the real reason is debt.’ Smith counted on the fingers of his right hand. ‘The mortgage, his car’s on HP, and last but not least, he owes money to a local bookie and to a loan shark, a guy with a very bad rep.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of him.’

  Crane nodded. ‘Get him to back off.’

  ‘Should I pay him off?’

  ‘No, just get him to tread water with Hodge for a while.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Are you sure Hodge isn’t a cop?’ Crane asked. He watched for Smith’s reaction.

  Smith breathed in deeply, held it in while he considered the question, exhaled slowly. ‘How can I say for sure, Bill? I’ve had him well checked out by this private detective I told you about, and I reckon he’s done a pretty good job in such a short space of time. He’s still on it, by the way.

  ‘Cops have good legends, I admit. A lot of time and effort goes into them, but I reckon Hodge is just an arsehole on the make, a greedy cunt. He’s seen an opportunity and is going for it.’ Smith looked out of the window. ‘Is he a cop, though?’ Then he sang, ‘How can I be sure, in a world that’s constantly changing?’ The old David Cassidy number.

  It brought a smile to Crane’s face. ‘Yeah, right. OK then, what about this being a set-up? Is it some kind of elaborate plot to do us? He came to you and that worries me.’

  ‘But only because Tony Roberts picked up on what Hodge was saying around the clubs. I’m the one who followed it up. He didn’t actually come to me.’

  ‘Bluff, counter-bluff, falling into the trap,’ Crane offered sagely.

  ‘Could be, Billy, could be, but I doubt it. My gut tells me that Colin Hodge is a genuine greedy, weak-kneed bastard who wants to escape from a squalid little shitty life, like a million other people. They just do the lottery instead.’

  Crane watched the passing landscape for a while. He sniffed. ‘OK, let’s go with him - but keep our eyes and ears well pinned.’

  A smile of satisfaction came to Smith’s face.

  ‘Next question, Don: does he genuinely carry that amount of cash?’

  ‘Haven’t been able to sort that one out yet, Bill. Working on it.’

  ‘All right - keep snooping.’ Crane stretched and adjusted his position on the seat. ‘What’s happening with the murder investigation?’

  At that exact moment, Loz was overtaking a slow-moving van. On hearing the word ‘murder’, he nearly left the road.

  ‘Fucking watch it!’ Crane yelled at him.

  Loz regained control. ‘Sorry, guys.’

  ‘As far as I can tell, they’re getting nowhere with it. Obviously the cops reckon it’s drug-related - correct, to a degree. Otherwise, nothing.’

  ‘What about the garage-owner?’

  ‘Won’t be a problem - knows nothing anyway. I arranged use of the garage through a long chain of people. I’m well down the line, too far down to unravel. Don’t worry, I’ve been very careful.’

  Crane leaned back. He wanted to know everything, but for the moment he was content.

  They had just reached the outskirts of Los Cristianos. There were many questions still to be asked.

  Contrary to widespread public belief, exaggerated by police dramas on TV and film, murders are not solved by maverick cops acting on their own instincts, breaking rules, disobeying their supervisors and falling into bed with sexy suspects. They are solved by routine, often tedious investigation by professional detectives who dedicate time and effort, often unpaid and unrecognised, and occasionally a smidgen of creativity, to catching the murderer.

  Whilst it can be exciting to be part of a Murder Squad, most of the work is boring, generated by a harassed office manager churning out ‘actions’ which are then allocated to detectives - usually, but not always, working in pairs. They then follow up the ‘action’ to the bitter end until they get a result, or otherwise. Then they go back to be given another, and so on and so forth - until there is a breakthrough. Even then, the actions don’t stop.

  Much to her surprise and delight, Danny had been drafted on to the murder team. These emotions were tempered by an action which, whilst of vital importance to the whole investigation, seemed to be getting nowhere fast. Very frustrating, as she believed this could be the key to the whole thing.

  The action read, very simply, Identify the unknown male in the vehicle inspection pit. She was then expected to follow up all the avenues open to her to achieve this objective.

  The first and most obvious port of call was to the Fingerprint Department. Danny had personally taken the dead man’s dabs whilst his body was on the mortuary slab, awaiting post-mortem. She had held his cold flesh, applied the fingerprint ink with a roller and manipulated good quality prints on to the required forms. That bit did not bother her in the least; what did was the sight of the head wounds. She could not stop her eyes from flicking up towards them, seeing injuries which reminded her of Jack Sands’s wounds as he lay in her fridge. However, she completed the task, relieved to get away.

  Fingerprints are not without their problems. Firstly, the obvious one: if the person is not in the system, there is no result. Secondly, if the person is not on the ‘Livescan’ data base - the computerised fast-track fingerprint recognition system - then a protracted manual search of all files has to be carried out. Even if the person is on record, there is the possibility that it could take weeks, even months, to match the dabs. There is also the minute possi
bility that a match might not be made. No system is infallible.

  The dead man’s prints were not on ‘Livescan’ and after three days, no manual match had been made. Danny was getting nowhere with her ‘action’. Dental records were another option to identification and she was awaiting results from this, which can also be a long-drawn-out process.

  Another avenue to explore is Missing From Home files, but they were not producing anything of interest as yet and anyway, Danny held out little hope from this. It was more than likely the dead man was from the criminal fraternity, and mysterious disappearances amongst felons and their families did not always result in someone being reported missing.

  Obviously the murders had generated a great deal of media interest. The press, locally and nationally, and local TV had been more than happy to circulate an artist’s impression of the dead man. This was Danny’s biggest hope in trying to ID the guy. The media usually prompted response, but so far there had been zilch.

  Danny knew that FB was in contact with the Crimewatch TV programme, and other similar shows, with a view to getting some lengthy national TV time - but so were forty-two other police forces, all clamouring and claiming their crimes were the most important ones. If Lancashire could get it on soon, there would be a pretty good chance of a result. Big ‘if’.

  As for the dead man himself, he had been completely naked. No clothing or documentation had been found, so nothing from that angle either.

  Danny sat at a desk in the Murder Incident Room (MIR) and scratched her head. This was her first mega murder enquiry and she had been tasked with a pivotal ‘action’. She was getting nowhere with it and now she was grasping at straws.