by Nick Oldham
Colin Hodge’s apartment was in Los Cristianos, about a mile away from the centre of the small port, in a block of at least fifty other similar apartments. There was a large pool outside next to which was a snack bar selling food and drink.
The woman from the night before had left and he was alone. His head was more together following his shower and another screw therein. He had spent the last hour on a sun lounger by the pool, sipping San Miguel and reading a paperback thriller. He reached the end of a chapter and folded down the corner of the page, then lay back with the book on his bare chest, his right hand reaching down for the beer at his side.
A figure appeared over him, blocking out the sunlight.
Something stirred in Hodge - maybe a tinge of fear - and for the first time he felt ever so slightly out of control. So far he had been master of ceremonies, but now, on their ground, he had lost that edge.
‘Can I help you?’ Hodge asked. His eyes focused on the man.
He was only a small guy, maybe five-six, nothing more. Pretty weedy-looking, wearing a bright shirt and light trousers. His left hand was bandaged.
‘Be on the ferry to La Gomera at three.’
That was all he said. He turned and walked away, ignoring Hodge’s, ‘But, what ...?’
Hodge leaned slowly back and picked up his beer with a dithery hand. He finished it off, but his throat remained constricted and dry.
Henry Christie’s hair had been closely cropped again with a number two attachment to the trimmer. He’d allowed his stubble a couple of days’ growth and now shaved electrically with the shaver head to maintain that level of growth. Designer stubble. He did not like it personally. He preferred a good, wet, close shave each day, but stubble suited the image of Frank Jagger, his alter ego.
Once again, he was back into his legend, rather like slipping into an old raincoat. He was at Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters near to Preston, where he was being briefed by Rupert Davison on the current state of the investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder. Also present, listening in and butting in when appropriate or otherwise, was ACC Fanshaw-Bayley.
Although Headquarters was quite close to his home, Henry had not driven directly to it that afternoon. Instead he had set off early and made his way to a very secret location on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Blackburn. It was a location known only to undercover police officers, the admin staff who directly supported them and a couple of high-ranking officers in the National Crime Squad which covered the North-West of England. Not even FB or Rupert Davison knew where it was. Its location was strictly controlled on a tight need-to-know basis.
It was a large, single-storey unit, surrounded by a high fence, protected by the latest hi-tech equipment, rented ultimately by the NCS. A fictitious company operated from the unit, ostensibly distributing goods in various shapes and sizes throughout the country. At least that’s what all the other companies on the estate were led to believe and anyone watching the place would also believe it too. It looked like a real company, operated like one, but it was only a shell. In reality it was the base where undercover police operatives went to adopt or ditch their legends or pick up or drop off gear and equipment.
Henry had driven all the way from Blackpool in his own car, cautiously adopting anti-surveillance tactics to ensure he wasn’t being followed - which could mean his cover was blown. In the undercover game nothing is ever taken for granted, not if you wanted to collect a pension. And Henry wanted.
In the unit, accessible only by key-code and swipe cards, he picked up Frank Jagger’s pager and mobile phone and the keys for the XJS. He slid into the driver’s seat, enjoying the only perk to being undercover - rarely was money any object. Going for top-class villains meant that cash had to be spent. It was probably the only area in policing where spending had not been drastically reduced over the past few years, though it still remained a consideration in this cost-conscious age.
Then, adopting anti-surveillance tactics again, he made his way to Headquarters Training School.
Henry focused his attention on Davison’s words. They might just save his life.
‘OK, it stands like this: the murder squad in Manchester have had both of Jacky Lee’s minders in for questioning. Funnily enough they deny any involvement in the dirty deed, and what they say conflicts with your and Terry Briggs’s statements.’
‘In what way?’ Henry asked.
‘Thompson and Elphick reckon they did a runner after Lee had been shot, not before, which is what you said. They say they were so frightened, they ran ... poor little mites.’
‘Do any other witnesses contradict what they say, and support our version of events?’
‘No.’ Davison pulled a pained face. ‘Everybody conflicts with everybody else, at least in some details. You know what it’s like when this sort of thing happens - your mind gets blown. So, because your evidence does not exist, in inverted commas’ - here Davison tweaked the first and second fingers on both hands to indicate inverted commas - ‘we can’t put it to them, as such.’ He was referring to his decision not to use Henry and Terry’s statements, at least not until the undercover operation had paid off, or not, as the case might be.
‘What do you mean, “as such”?’ Henry wanted to know. He was suspicious of the phrase. It sounded odd to him.
Davison corrected himself. ‘Only that we haven’t used your evidence at all. Now,’ he moved on smoothly, leaving Henry slightly dissatisfied with the remark, ‘it was suggested to Thompson and Elphick that they were behind Lee’s death and that they have gained considerably from it. They denied it, of course, but the word picked up by the murder team is that these guys are now in control of Lee’s operation. It’s a pretty big rumour out on the streets too, but not substantiated yet.’
‘What about the killer himself? Anything further on him?’
Davison shook his head. ‘No, looks like a pay-per-kill job. In and out, no trace, no leads.’
‘What about my wire?’ Henry asked, referring to the tape recorder he was wearing at the time of the killing. ‘Anything from that?’
‘No - too much rustling and banging and distortion.’
‘The getaway car?’ Henry asked hopefully. There were a lot of negatives.
‘Not turned up. We reckon it’s been recycled. Loads of scrap yards in the region are being visited, but there’s nothing yet. Either that or it’s in a deep quarry somewhere. I’ll be getting the diving branch to check the best-known dumping places.’
‘Anything from my description of the driver?’
‘Nothing concrete, but we do have a suspect. A young lad from a council estate in Salford, suspected of driving at robberies. He’s being looked into. . .’ Davison paused mid-sentence and quickly said, ‘but very discreetly, of course, as part of the wider picture because your description of him doesn’t exist, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t, does it?’ Henry said sourly. Maybe he was prejudging Davison, but he had dropped the question in about the description purposely and got the reply he didn’t want to hear. He breathed in, eyeballing Davison. Not a happy chappie.
‘I want you to swear to me that our statements have not been used in any way to further this investigation,’ Henry insisted.
The air turned cold as an atmosphere settled on the room.
Davison squirmed, as if his anus had contracted and relaxed.
‘Because if they have,’ Henry continued, ‘I’m not going back in.’
‘They haven’t,’ the Superintendent said firmly, but a little too quickly for Henry’s liking.
Colin Hodge should have enjoyed the ninety-minute hydrofoil crossing to La Gomera more than he did. A sense of impending doom about the whole scenario which he himself had engineered blinded his senses. He sat on the upper deck of the Fred Olsen ferry, totally unmoved by the magnificent sight of a school of dolphins accompanying the ship, his guts churning with fear rather than sea-sickness.
The ferry slowed and manoeuvred into San Sebastian, disgorgin
g foot passengers and vehicles on to the harbour side.
Hodge stood by the water’s edge underneath the burning hot sun, looking towards the town, shading his eyes. An old, dusty brown Mercedes drove slowly along the dock towards him, against the flow of traffic leaving the boat.
Loz tapped Hodge on the shoulder. He had also been a passenger on the ferry, easily keeping out of Hodge’s view amongst the holidaymakers and locals on board. Hodge spun quickly and recognised Loz as the mysterious guy who had delivered the poolside message to him earlier. The bandaged hand gave it away for sure. This time Hodge could see Loz’s features properly: a pointed, rather mean face, thinning hair drawn back into a pony tail tied with a red ribbon. The face displayed the bruises of a recent assault. His mouth was twisted into a permanent half-grimace, showing discoloured and crooked teeth. His bandaged hand was laid across his stomach, supported by his other hand. Hodge thought the facial expression was probably connected with the pain from his hand.
‘Get in the car.’ Loz pointed to the brown Benz. It had stopped close by.
‘Not until I know where I’m going.’ Hodge dug his heels in with a show of bravado.
‘To see the boss.’
‘Not good enough.’
Loz eyed him with pissed-off contempt. ‘Look, I don’t give a monkey’s fart whether you get in or not - and nor does my boss. You can fuck off back on the ferry if you want, but don’t even think of going back to the apartment if you do. The hospitality will have ended. Just fuck off back to England.’
‘I’ve got something your boss wants.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Loz sighed. ‘Just make your mind up.’ He walked to the car and opened a rear door, made a sweeping gesture with his good hand, as a footman might, and raised his eyebrows.
The spur of the moment saw Hodge climb in. The prospect of a share in fifty million pounds overwhelmed him and made the danger seem worthwhile.
Loz sat in the front seat next to the driver. He slid on a pair of shades and gave a quick wave to a cop lounging by a police car. The Mercedes swung round on the harbour and headed towards San Sebastian.
‘What happened to your hand?’ Hodge asked.
‘I stuck it in a lion’s mouth.’
It is never a good thing to walk out of a briefing feeling that you have been lied to, but that is exactly what Henry Christie did that afternoon. He left the classroom and wandered out of the training school into the car park which had once been a parade square.
Henry easily and affectionately remembered the early days of his police service - the mid-1970s - when drill had still been a big part of a Probationer Constable’s curriculum and he had marched everywhere. Now very little drill was done. The modern philosophy was that discipline and responsibility should come from within a person, rather than from the parent-like authority of the organisation, via a drill pig.
Henry had hated drill. Not having any natural rhythm (on the dance-floor he was a ludicrous spectacle), he had been uncoordinated and gangling - particularly as a spotty, pasty-faced youth of nineteen; he was often out of step, having to constantly readjust and re-time his stride with a series of silly shuffles. He could never take marching seriously. Even then, when he knew no different, he thought it was a complete waste of time. Consequently he had suffered much ritual humiliation and tongue-lashings by Drill Sergeants, usually for his lack of timing, often for having hair that was too long (very early in his service, he had been literally dragged to the Force joiner, a position no longer in existence, who also doubled as a barber: the man scalped Henry without mercy) and for his untidy uniform and non-regulation socks and shoes. In those days, being a bit of a rebel, he insisted on wearing black socks with coloured flecks in them and black brogues, as opposed to the prescribed black socks and plain-fronted black shoes or boots.
These days, he in turn often complained bitterly about the standard of recruits, their cockiness and slovenly appearance ... such was the perspective of age.
Henry perched his backside on the wing of the XJS and unhooked his mobile phone from his belt. He tapped in a number.
It was, as they say in the world of the undercover cop, ‘scam time’.
This was the most enjoyable part of the job. Daily trying to think up ways of setting up villains for a fall, yet protecting all the players and informants along the way. Plotting against the bastards with the only limit being imagination and creativity. The beauty of it being that no matter how outlandish the plot, if it seemed remotely feasible, then it would be attempted.
Henry had once concocted a beautiful one which had taken only a few weeks to jack up and execute. It had been the ‘scamming’ of a bent solicitor in Carlisle who was strongly suspected of laundering money for the criminals he defended. The set-up had included going into a police station posing as contracted painters and decorators without anyone who worked there, other than the Superintendent in charge of the station, knowing they were undercover cops. Henry and a small team actually redecorated the custody suite and at the same time installed miniature cameras, which recorded sound too, in one of the interview rooms. These devices were connected to a transmitter fitted secretly on the roof of the police station which beamed sound and pictures a mile across town to an office which had been rented for the operation.
The next part of the scam involved the use of two U/C officers from the South of England and their real arrest on suspicion of possession of drugs; the timing of this had to coincide with a period when the bent brief was on call as the duty solicitor.
It worked like a dream. The solicitor was requested by the ‘prisoners’, who then embroiled him unwittingly into the seam, but willingly into a conspiracy involving £300,000, a stash of cocaine and some false passports. He was subsequently arrested and convicted, and received six years for his troubles.
The operation highlighted another danger facing U/C cops: sometimes they got arrested together with their targets and there is no possible way of saying to the Custody Officer, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m really a cop.’ For one thing, they won’t believe you, but if they did, they would still detain you and then your troubles would really begin.
Henry had once been arrested. It had been a real arse-twitching, bottle-testing time, sitting in a cell with a dry mouth, wondering if it was going to work out without his cover being blown, or whether he would be spending a week on remand where the possibility of recognition was very real.
Henry held the mobile phone to his ear. It rang for a short time and then was answered, making his stomach lurch.
‘Is that Gary Thompson? . . . It’s Frank Jagger here. . .’ Scam time had begun.
They drove out of San Sebastian and immediately began to climb the excellent but winding highway which snaked across the centre of La Gomera. Soon they were on top of the island. The air was clear and the brilliant blue sky seemed close enough to touch.
Then they were in the cloud forest, high trees either side of the road, obscuring views but with occasional breaks through which spectacular vistas could be glimpsed.
‘I need a cigarette,’ Loz said to the driver, who had yet to speak. ‘What about you?’ he asked over his shoulder to Hodge.
‘You bet.’ He was gasping.
‘Pull in here,’ Loz indicated to the driver. It was a lay-by next to the road with a sign indicating a viewpoint.
The Mercedes slowed and edged off the road, tyres scrunching on the loose stones. Loz dived out and meandered to a bench which he leaned against, blinking at the scenery.
Hodge came up behind him, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. ‘Where we going?’
‘You’ll see soon.’
They smoked in silence until Loz stamped his cigarette out and turned to Hodge who had just finished his. ‘Time to go.’
The driver, who had approached quietly, slid a black hood over Hodge’s head, drew a string tightly around his neck and wrestled him to the ground. Loz assisted him to strap Hodge’s hands together with tape and drag him to the Mercedes, where they thr
ew him bodily across the back seat.
Danny spent the day reading everything that had accumulated from the murders of Cheryl, Spencer and the unidentified male. Even in such a short space of time, masses of material - intelligence, evidence and dross - had accumulated. She studied it all carefully in the hope that her detective’s mind would find the missing link, or hit on that one vital piece of information everyone else had missed, slot everything together and come up with some answers.
It did not happen.
Although she acknowledged her ‘action’ was probably a key to the whole thing, the most likely avenue for a result in the short term was through the garage owner, Peter Maynard. Three people don’t just get murdered in your business premises without you knowing something about it.
In interview he had admitted nothing and in the end he was released on police bail.
He was now under covert surveillance and permission was being sought from the appropriate authority to tap his phones at home and work. Sooner or later he would let something slip. At least, that was the hope.
Most resources were concentrating on him, others were trying to trace the source of the drugs that Cheryl had been carrying.
Danny closed the big fat ring-binder and leaned her elbows on it, cradling her face. It was almost nine o’clock, Monday evening, four days into the enquiry. In a few minutes there would be a flood of officers in the Incident Room for the evening debrief. Each one would have to report on progress made or, in Danny’s case, progress not made. After that, most of them would probably go for a drink.
Danny decided she would be going straight home and hitting the sack.
Chapter Ten