by Nick Oldham
‘Not only have you nearly just blown my cover sky high, but you nearly got me killed last night, you prick! You lied to me by saying you hadn’t mentioned my statement to Thompson and Elphick, didn’t you?’
‘No, Henry,’ his victim spluttered with difficulty. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re on about, but if you don’t let go of me now you can wave goodbye to your job and your pension.’
‘Bollocks!’ Henry rasped, spittle coming out with the word. He applied more pressure to Davison’s windpipe and re-bunched his fist for effect. Davison’s eyes squinted in anticipation of the punch. He struggled, attempting to break free, but Henry’s heavier bulk kept him pinned there. Henry moved his face even closer to Davison’s. They were nose to nose. Davison picked up every nuance of Henry’s sheer anger.
‘I know what you’re about, you bastard,’ Henry uttered through clenched teeth. ‘You’re trying to save your career at the expense of every other fucker around you. You’re a dangerous bastard and someone should have put you out of this job years ago; but I’ll tell you something. . .’ Henry’s voice lowered into a growl. . . ‘you’re mixing it with someone who’ll take you on, because when I’ve finished with Gunk and Gary, I’m coming for you and I’m going to take you down - and out. Got that? You are dead meat as far as the police service goes.’
Henry eased off with a glare of disdain, leaving the higher ranking officer sprawled across the bed, massaging his throat, looking angrily at Henry’s back as he left the room.
Chapter Twelve
Take-off was never a problem for Danny; it was the slow glide back towards ground as the plane lined up for the runway which gave her the, sharp pain in the middle of her head. She swallowed in an attempt to put some balance back and squirmed uncomfortably in the narrow seat. She adjusted her long legs once more, trying to keep her knees out of the seat-back in front of her which, as the flight had progressed, seemed to creep closer and closer to her.
But how could she possibly complain, as three days after discovering the identity of the third corpse, and for the second time in her career as a Detective Sergeant, she was travelling abroad at the firm’s expense? The first time had been a ‘jolly’ to Florida to pick up a reluctant witness, a journey which had turned out to be a nightmare of the first degree. Now she was very close to landing at Reina Sofia Airport on Tenerife for a job which she hoped would be less fraught with danger than the American trip had been. That trip had been done on Business Class, this one was economy-sardine. The difference was incredible and not just the price variation. Danny did not really mind though, because when she landed she was going to be put in a decent hotel, would probably have the opportunity to do some sunbathing, be able to pick up some duty-free cigarettes and perfume on the way home - and in between all that have a chat with former Detective Inspector Barney Gillrow about one Malcolm Fitch, deceased, who, it had transpired, used to be one of Gillrow’s informants.
When Danny had suggested the idea of a trip to Tenerife, she had expected out-and-out resistance. However, as the investigation was getting nowhere fast, the SIO in charge was more than happy to authorise the journey even though two other detectives had just returned from the island having drawn a blank with the drug-connection theory to the triple murder.
After Danny finally got her hands on the RCS file on Fitch, it was obvious that Gillrow was his handler. The file was extremely sparse, with few entries of any real note. Danny sniggered when she read it because these days, informant handling at any level was strictly controlled and very bureaucratic. Logs were kept of every meeting, all monetary transactions were scrupulously recorded and verified and nothing was left to chance.
Gillrow had been operating in the days of laxity when procedures were loose and open to all kinds of corruption. Exactly the reasons why things had needed to be tightened up. Too many cops were splitting money with their snouts, too many were getting involved in sexual relationships with them, and too many jobs were going bandit, either before or at court.
After getting the file, Danny had then reached Gillrow by phone. It had been a stilted conversation. He seemed reluctant to talk, stated his memory was not what it once was and he could hardly even recall the name Fitch. Danny had started the phone call believing it would be enough, but the strange vibes she picked up alerted her instinct and made her decide that a face-to-face interview would be more appropriate.
Which is how she found herself crammed on to a holiday charter flight, suffering severe earache, swallowing like mad, sucking a boiled sweet, and descending gradually towards Tenerife.
The seat-belt sign came on - and the No Smoking one. This latter one made her snort. Some joke. The whole flight had been a non-smoker, which was not good. Four hours without a drag was purgatory for her. She was longing for the inside of the terminal building where she would put four cigarettes in her mouth, light them all and inhale a quadruple lungful of smoke.
To fight the feeling, Danny tried to relax and think some more about ex-DI Gillrow. Before flying out she had made a quick visit to the HR department at Headquarters and requested to see Gillrow’s personal file. It had been retrieved from a dusty storeroom, where old personal files are laid to rest.
She did not learn a great deal about the man. He had been a career detective, moving from local CID work to the RCS as it was then, and bouncing between the two as he rose through the ranks. He had retired at the age of fifty-two with thirty-three years’ service behind him and not a blemish on his record. Mr Perfect. A decent, hard-working individual, now enjoying a long, and happy retirement on an island in the sun, as many police officers often did. He was not quite sixty and had a lot more living to do. According to the file he lived in Tenerife with his second wife. He had been married to her for nineteen years. Yes, a good all-round egg ... and yet Danny shuddered ever so slightly. The guardedness of the phone call - something was just not quite right, but she didn’t know what. Only by talking to him face to face, watching his reactions, his body language, his eyes, would she be satisfied.
The undercarriage whined down with a creak and a groan. Final descent.
Danny saw road lights below her from the window. She tightened her seat belt, then glanced at her watch - 9.30 p.m. She made some mental calculations: up to an hour tops to get through the airport, collect luggage and pick up the pre-ordered hire car; twenty minutes to Los Cristianos - a resort she knew well from previous holidays - book into the hotel, quick shower, change into holiday clothes, then down to the harbour for a meal and a bottle of wine in a restaurant.
She tried unsuccessfully to wipe the grin off her face.
It was a dirty job, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. . .
It was an awfully civilised occasion by any standards. A thirtieth birthday party, the big three-zero.
The entire restaurant had been hired for it - at a very discounted price, obviously. A marquee had been erected in the gardens, with a dance-floor and live music from Queen and Beatles tribute bands. The food, wine and entertainment were all terrific and free to everyone who had been invited.
Henry Christie did not want to be there.
It was not in his plans to be invited to Gary Thompson’s girlfriend’s birthday bash. But such was the way of undercover operations. He had intended that the first down payment of the money for the stolen whisky should have taken place in an environment which he controlled. The last-minute party invitation had thrown him off kilter and he could not really refuse it. Gary had said he wanted to settle things at the party and for Henry to have said no would have probably aroused suspicion.
At least it meant he was in the bloke’s good books and maybe there would be some opportunity to get Gary or Gunk to start blabbing whilst under the influence of drink.
Henry, wired up, walked into the marquee entrance and had a listen to the Freddie Mercury lookalike for a few minutes, quite impressed.
Whilst lounging there and being treated to a rousing rendition of ‘Hammer to Fall’, Henry’s eyes ro
ved across the assorted assemblage. Then he did a double-take and tensed up as he recognised someone in the crowd - a guy called Fallon, a Manchester crim, low-level drug dealer, who Henry had surveilled and locked up a few years before when he’d been on the squad. Henry moved away from the marquee, quickly putting his drink to his mouth to cover some of his face. This was one of those exact reasons why undercover cops do not work near home. The possibility of being blown out, accidentally or otherwise, was very real and dangerous.
And if Fallon was here, who else could be?
What he needed to do was conduct his business with Thompson, make his excuses and then a sharp exit.
He tried to stroll nonchalantly away from the tent whilst holding his glass up to his cheek, pretending to scratch the corner of his eyes. He had gone about ten yards towards the restaurant when a big, heavy arm wrapped around his shoulders. Gunk Elphick stuck his face into Henry’s, overpowering the detective’s sense of smell with a combination of booze and a particularly repugnant aftershave. The fusion stung Henry’s eyeballs, made him blink rapidly.
‘Frank, how you doing, pal?’ slurred Gunk, oiled to a very high viscosity.
‘I’m fine, considering.’
Gunk stepped back, affronted. ‘You still moanin’ about me duffin’ you up?’
‘Duffing isn’t the word I would choose. Hammering the shite out of, is the phrase. And yes, I am sore.’
‘Y’soft twat.’ Gunk punched him hard on the shoulder. ‘Nowt personal.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
Gunk’s face warped into a ‘Don’t give a monkey’s anyway’ sort of look. ‘What do you think about the do?’ He swept his arm in an all-encompassing gesture, taking in the whole of the party.
‘Big do. Nice.’ Henry nodded appreciatively.
‘Yeah, you’re right - effin’ big do.’ Gunk gave Henry a salacious wink for some unfathomable reason. ‘We’ve invited a lot of top boys to this, both as a sign of friendship and also to put ‘em on notice that me and Gazzer’ve arrived. To let ‘em know where the power is going to be in the future. A kind of friendly poke in the ribs to our competitors, sorta.’ Gunk’s big index finger rocketed towards Henry’s chest to reinforce the point. Henry caught it in his fist and slowed it down before it broke his sternum. The finger was as podgy as a semi-erect cock. Henry let it go quickly.
Gunk leaned into Henry again. The drink was making him voluble. ‘We’re going to be big, me and Gazzer,’ he breathed. ‘Got big plans ... and now that we’ve got the backing. . . and we’ve already let the rest of the nobs know we won’t be twatted around with.’ Again, he winked.
‘You mean by that, the way you dealt with Jacky Lee?’
Gunk tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘Ex - fucking - zacktly. We are going to be immense in this town.’ He leaned back slightly, teetered, then regained balance.
‘Can you talk Russian?’ Henry asked him.
‘No need. English is the language of the world, these days. They talk it better’n me, and they talk money. That’s all we need to get along, innit?’
‘Sounds a good enough combination to me,’ Henry agreed - except that he seriously questioned the wisdom of such a partnership as, over the last couple of days, he had done some research into the Russian Mafia.
Henry had contacted his friend and colleague at the FBI office in London, a man called Karl Donaldson. He and Henry had met each other a few years earlier on a case concerning American Mafia connections in the North of England – a job that had almost cost Henry his life. Henry knew Karl would be able to give him the lowdown on the Russians, in particular how they operated abroad.
He had made the correct assumption. The Russians, it transpired, were very high on the agenda of the FBI for reasons Donaldson did not immediately explain.
Donaldson got quickly into his stride. Since the demise of the USSR, the American began, the Russian Mafia had internationalised very quickly and became a leading player in global crime. He went on to quote a few facts about Russian operations outside that country. They fell into three main categories.
The first was known as hard penetration. This is where the Mafia decide to establish themselves as the predominant criminal force in a particular area or country. In some cases this is achieved by aligning themselves with local organised crime and in others taking on the locals directly and bloodily in turf wars. Examples of countries in which this approach had been taken were Poland, Austria, Germany and Israel.
Next category, Donaldson went on with relish, was a more subtle technique known as soft penetration. This method is chosen when the marauding Russians see either the local law enforcers or the local organised gangs as threats, such as in the UK where the cops, on the whole, are pretty effective or in Italy, where the local Mafia are just as ruthless and well-organised as the Russians themselves. In these cases, their usual method of infiltration is by way of legitimate business fronts.
Finally - last but not least - came Donaldson’s third option: service penetration. In this way the Russians are able to cash in on their undoubted skills and abilities in several areas by providing key services to criminal gangs, whether it be money laundering or assassination.
There were examples, he said, of the Russians combining two or all three of these approaches where necessary. They sometimes kill for the locals, then move into their organisations, then take over - often by use of force.
Henry felt slightly queasy at the revelation.
Donaldson had concluded by telling Henry that the FBI, and the CIA, he believed, were investigating several murders which appeared to have been carried out by highly trained Russian killers contracted by local criminals.
‘Good Lord,’ Henry exclaimed as Donaldson finished the last point. He quickly asked the American if he knew any of the Russian language. Henry knew Donaldson was a whizz at language.
‘Yeah, I’m studying it at night school in Basingstoke, doing what you Brits call an A level. Why?’
‘What does. . . let me try to get this right. . . “Astana veesta” mean? He tried to recall what Jacky Lee’s killer had shouted at him.
Donaldson thought for a moment. ‘If you’ve got it right, it could be “Stop” maybe.’
Henry quickly told him about the situation in which he found himself, described Jacky Lee’s murder, and the subsequent appearance of the Bryan Ferry lookalike, Mr Drozdov, on the scene in Manchester.
As a matter of urgency, Donaldson asked Henry to send him a copy of everything he had, and promised to do some digging for him with his European contacts.
Now, as Henry looked at Gunk, swaying drunkenly before him at the party, he wondered who would come off better in the partnership, the Russians or the locals. But he already knew the answer. For all their bluster and violence, Gary and Gunk did not have the brains to foresee the implications of getting into bed with the Russians.
Henry did not have one jot of sympathy.
‘They did Jacky for us as a favour,’ Gunk said bluntly, astonishing his listener. ‘They wanted to work with Jacky at first, but he told them to sling their hooks. Then they talked to us, discreet like, put a deal to us and we had the vision to see ahead.’ Suddenly Gunk clammed up tight, realising he had said too much, even in his inebriated state.
Yeah, thought Henry, the Russians do not do favours without a payback day.
Gunk grinned lopsidedly at Henry, who thought fleetingly that he was just a big, dumb lad with a very violent streak in him.
‘Where’s your bird?’ Henry enquired innocently.
‘Me? I don’t have a bird. I shag blokes, mate. I’m a poof, queer, whatever you wanna call me . . . and to be honest, I fancy shagging you.’ Gunk’s ‘dumb lad’ face turned menacing. ‘But I think you know that already.’
They commandeered the restaurant manager’s office, the man reluctantly vacating the room when he realised it was probably in his best interests to do so. The verbal request for him to up-stakes came from the drunken Gunk; behind him stood Ga
ry Thompson, Drozdov and Henry. Four very intimidating characters to say the least.
Gary took the manager’s seat behind the desk. Drozdov and Gunk settled into a ragged two-seater sofa. Gunk immediately loosened his belt, parted his legs and farted loudly and proudly. Henry caught the most fleeting expression on Drozdov’s face, making the detective guess that when the time was right, Gunk would be the first to be fitted with a cement overcoat when the Russians took over.
Henry, chairless, perched on the corner of the desk. He picked up a letter-opener and scraped his nails - because he’d seen some gangsters do it in films. He very quickly learned that letter-openers are not designed to clean behind fingernails.
‘Sorry to push this through so fast,’ Henry said apologetically, ‘but I’ve got to get on to another appointment, after which,’ he added as a sweetener, ‘I’ll probably be able to offer you some very cheap ciggies. I have a contact in Kent who deals in duty frees. Excellent prices, amazing mark-ups ... so I need to get going. Sorry, because it’s a good party.’
‘OK, what’re you saying?’ Gary asked.
‘I’d like that down payment we agreed on - and tomorrow I’ll arrange delivery wherever and whenever you like.’
‘How do I know you won’t fuck off with the money?’
Henry laid the letter-opener down, a very pained expression on his face. ‘I thought we’d been through all this. My word is my bond. I’ve got a good history as you know. I never once let Jacky Lee down and I won’t let you down.’ He was holding his arms wide in an ‘Honest John’ gesture. Then he decided to throw in a bit of a wobbler like Frank Jagger would have done. ‘And anyway, what is all this shit? I’m here, aren’t I? You’ve beaten the crap out of me, put me through the ringer ‘cos you thought I might be a cop, and I’m still here, putting business your way. If I had been a cop, I would’ve dropped this job pretty damn quick, and if I hadn’t wanted to do a deal with you, I wouldn’t be here. So what do you want? More blood? I need the down payment to get this deal up and running. If you don’t want to give it, I’ll fuck off.’