by Nick Oldham
So what had he got to hide? Danny asked herself as she reached the promenade and turned left towards Los Cristianos. Informants were always a dirty business. She guessed that Gillrow was probably hiding some deep, dark secret concerning his involvement with Fitch. The question Danny posed for herself was - how do I prise the top off this particular can of worms?
The massive doors clattered open and Terry Briggs reversed the Mercedes Box Van fully into the unit. The doors closed as soon as the vehicle was inside. He jumped down from the cab and trotted round to the back doors, which he opened. He then started to load the boxes of whisky into the back with the assistance of another couple of U/C cops who were killing a bit of time between jobs.
Henry was on the landline to the FBI office in London, speaking to Karl Donaldson.
‘Thanks for the fax. Sobering stuff.’
‘You’ve got some major problems up there, I’d say.’
Henry agreed. ‘I think we probably do need an operation to nip this in the bud, if possible. This whole thing started off as a murder enquiry and it seems to have snowballed. I need to get my thinking cap on and see if I can think of a way of scamming the Russians at the same time as my other targets.’
‘If you’d like us to get involved, the offer is there,’ Donaldson said. ‘We have good intelligence on these guys and we’d be happy to share it with you. Well,’ the American qualified the statement, ‘up to a point.’
Henry understood. Intelligence was power and influence. You don’t just chuck it at people, whoever you are. Cops are notoriously tight-fisted with it; it’s a cultural thing.
‘There is another twist as well.’
‘What’s that?’ Donaldson asked.
Henry told him about the sudden, unexpected appearance of Billy Crane on the scene, which Henry hoped he had weathered. Crane had shown no sign of recognising him. After all, it was twelve years since they had confronted each other in the Casualty Department at Blackburn Royal Infirmary and Crane had been well out of it at the time. Henry had not seen him since as he had pleaded guilty at trial. But Crane surfacing like that had nearly given him a thromb. He would have to be very careful in future.
‘I don’t know what’s going on, but Crane has been remarkably quiet since he got out of jail, and now here he is, back again.’
‘Well, stick in there, buddy - and keep looking over your shoulder because I wouldn’t trust any of these people, even the cops,’ he chuckled.
Words which turned out to be prophetic.
Loz had been left in charge of Nero again and, by implication, in charge of the businesses whilst Crane was away from the island. What it really meant was that Loz should feed Nero and clean up his piss and shit and not do anything to rock the boat businesswise whilst Lord and Master Crane was abroad.
Loz was on the rooftop of Uncle B’s Bar and Disco with a six-foot-long piece of bamboo cane in his hand, staring disconsolately at the beast, having poked the mean bastard evilly several times just to annoy him. And annoyed the animal was, angrily pacing the small cage, grunting with each step, his eyes burning towards Loz who pushed the cane pole through the mesh and jabbed it at the cat again. Nero’s temper was worsened by the fact that a bucketful of bloody horsemeat was at Loz’s feet, the aroma driving the hungry cat madder and madder.
‘Come on, you bastard, suffer like you made me do.’ Loz held up his bandaged hand and waved it at Nero. With his other hand he poked the bamboo into the cage. Nero reacted this time by turning quickly, swiping at the -offending stick and dragging it out of Loz’s grasp.
‘Shit!’
Nero licked his lips and looked down his long nose at Loz and growled.
‘In that case, you can wait for this, you swine.’ Loz kicked the bucket at his feet.
Loz was now a very unhappy person. Following his faux pas in hiring a stupid girl with an even stupider boyfriend to deliver drugs which had ended up in the hands of the cops, Billy Crane had been treating him very badly indeed. After the incident with Nero, Crane had virtually shunned Loz, used him as a gofer and a waiter and told him to forget about hiring any more mules. ‘Your judgment is so clouded,’ Crane had once screamed at him, ‘that I wonder if you’re a junkie yourself.’
Loz had denied it, even though it was beginning to be true.
When he had started in the game, he’d been clean. But then he got a taste for it, bit by disastrous bit. Until he reached a point where he was skimming for his own use, something Crane did not know, but may have suspected.
Now he was being denied access to free drugs and he had been forced to go buying himself - and it was a problem. Money was getting tight. He’d dipped his fingers into a few of Crane’s tills even though he was aware that this was a quick way to a very dusty death if he wasn’t very careful. The thieving had to stop, but unless he could persuade Crane to let him get back into the trade, it would be a struggle.
Crane had also cut him off from everything else that was happening.
Loz could feel something big was in the air, but did not know quite what. The appearance of Smith and that pathetic little turd called Colin had signalled something on the horizon. Try as he might, Loz could not quite work out what.
Then Crane and Smith had suddenly departed for the UK, separately, leaving a festering man ‘in charge’.
Loz desperately needed to get back into Crane’s good books.
Teasing Nero, he suddenly thought, was not the way to do it. He emptied the disgusting horseflesh into the feed tray and kicked it through to the lion. Nero grabbed a huge chunk with an enormous roar and began to chew it. ‘Choke on it, you bastard,’ Loz said.
No, teasing Nero was not the way, but possibly acting on the phone call he had received earlier might be. Time to meet the guy and see what it was all about. It was 7.55 p.m.
At 8 p.m. Henry still had not heard from Thompson or Elphick. He was beginning to think the deal might be off. He and Terry were still at the unit, the only two police officers there at that moment in time. Henry had just finished a phone call to Kate and had also had a quick chat with both his daughters. The conversation with his wife had been strained, to say the least, but the girls were chatty and full of news, including the fact that the older one, Jenny, now had a boyfriend who had his nose pierced. Henry’s heart skipped a beat or two backwards at the news. It made him realise how grown-up she was, and how much of her growing up he had missed. It was a horrible feeling.
He helped himself to a strong black coffee from the machine and sat next to Terry at the table in the small canteen. Terry was scribbling notes down in his pocket book.
Henry’s phone rang. He answered it, listened, ended the call, looked at Terry. ‘We’re on.’
Danny was showered, made up and ready to roll by 8.15 p.m. This would be her last evening in Tenerife and she was going to fly home next day if she could get a flight. She intended to make the most of her time and planned to have another harbour-view meal at the same restaurant she had visited last night, then carouse around the bars until well after midnight, get tipsy, smoke too much and stagger back to the hotel.
She walked out on to the balcony, and smiled at the view across the bay. She could see right across to the lights of San Sebastian on La Gomera. It was a wonderful clear evening. Her thoughts, however, turned to Gillrow.
She hated coincidences. She tried to talk herself out of thinking that just because he lived on Tenerife he was involved, somewhere along the line, in the murder of a man who used to be one of his informants, who had ended up dead with two other people who were importing drugs from Tenerife. She gazed up at the star-filled night sky, willing herself not to make any assumptions or jump to any conclusions which could backfire. . . Yet why had he been so uncooperative? There was no obvious reason for it.
She tried to put herself into his boots. Eight years retired, living a life of moderate luxury in the sun, being asked dumb questions about someone he might not have seen for a dozen years. The more she thought about it, the m
ore she thought that, had it been her, she would have welcomed the opportunity to chat about the good old days. Retired bobbies, in her experience, relished it.
Gillrow’s whole attitude had a certain whiff about it.
Which is why she banged both hands on the balcony rail and said to the night, ‘Mr Gillrow, you’re going to get another visit tomorrow, mate, because I’m not happy with you at all.’
‘I need to see Billy Crane.’
‘You can’t, he’s away. I’m in charge. I’ll deal with any problem you might have.’
Gillrow looked unsurely at Loz, not really liking what he saw, but feeling he had no other choice.
Loz, in turn, regarded Gillrow coldly. He knew he was an ex-cop and that he and Crane had some sort of relationship, based on what, he did not know. Probably bribes, he guessed. Or maybe the passing of police intelligence. Or perhaps Billy Crane could have been a snout for Gillrow once upon a time, although Loz doubted that idea.
Loz knew that Crane would definitely appreciate him giving Gillrow help if he required it. Loz could see Gillrow was nervous.
‘All right,’ Gillrow said, swallowing. He looked around the bar. They were in one of Crane’s dives in Los Cristianos, a small English bar serving lots of fried food, crappy English beer and showing live Premiership matches on a big screen. It was quiet at the moment. By ten-thirty it would be heaving. ‘I’ve got a problem. It concerns Malcolm Fitch, who is now dead with bullets in his brain.’
‘Go on,’ Loz urged, not having the slightest clue as to who Malcolm Fitch was.
‘I’ve just been questioned by a detective from Lancashire today, come all the bloody way from Blackpool, would you believe? Investigating Fitch’s murder. Rooted out my file on Fitch and came to bloody see me. Can’t believe it. I didn’t say anything, but I’m not happy. Something needs to be done or me and Billy could be in big trouble. She wasn’t satisfied with what I told her and I’m afraid if she starts digging, there could be ructions.’
‘Hold on - did you say “she”?’ Loz asked incredulously.
Gillrow nodded.
‘You’re intimidated by a woman?’
‘It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman - she’s a detective.’
Loz sneered contemptuously at this. ‘A bloody woman!’
‘Look, sex doesn’t fucking matter, does it? What does matter is that she’s going to start digging and when she does that, we could be in the shit.’
‘Why, haven’t you covered your tracks?’
‘Twelve years ago - yes. Now they have the systems and stuff to dig deeper than we did in my time. I’m worried.’
‘Is she still on the island?’
‘I think so.’ Gillrow held up Danny’s card, showing him the back of it where she had scribbled the name of the hotel and her room number.
Loz snatched it. ‘Leave her to me, I’ll sort it. Don’t you worry your pathetic little head.’ He patted Gillrow on the cheek using his bandaged hand, which smelled dreadful.
Henry drove the XJS behind the box van being driven by Terry. Henry was pretty comfortable about the situation into which they were headed. It confirmed that Thompson, Elphick and the Russian, presumably, had accepted him as one on their cronies after their initial suspicion and that Billy Crane hadn’t clocked Henry as a cop. At the party the other night Gunk had even begun to stutter some admissions to Henry about Jacky Lee’s murder. A few more deliveries like this one and Henry believed they would be falling over themselves to confide in him and also to reveal the extent of the Russian involvement which was fascinating Henry. At the same time, it was giving Henry a paradox to deal with.
If he could persuade the hierarchy to run an operation against the Russians, then the arrest of Thompson and Elphick for Lee’s murder might have to go on the back burner for a while, particularly if Henry took on a greater role in their activities. Henry was prepared to argue that, for the greater good, the arrest of the brothers could wait a while. But he knew that because of Superintendent Davison’s precarious predicament as an SIO, he would have one hell of a job convincing him. Davison needed a result on the murder PDQ.
For the present, Henry was content to coast along and let Thompson and Co. believe they were buying stolen whisky. He whistled as he drove and smiled. What had started off as something he had not wanted to get involved in was opening out and becoming more and more interesting. The Russian Mafia, for God’s sake. Fucking up their expansion plans would be great fun.
But unbeknownst to Henry Christie, three people who had never met each other, but who had all met him, were thinking very dark thoughts about him.
Chapter Fourteen
‘If you are ever thinking of pulling a job and you need some manpower or equipment, anything at all, you give me a bell. I won’t let you down, pal. I’ve got good contacts - discreet and very, very trustworthy.’
These were the words uttered by Jacky Lee to Billy Crane on the day Lee had been released from prison, following his sentence on the conspiracy and handling indictments which - way back down the line - had been instigated by Henry Christie. Crane and Lee had become cellmates by accident on transfer. Crane had been brought across from Wakefield and Lee from Wymott, both into Strangeways and slammed in the same pokey. Their relationship had blossomed and both had confided their plans for the future to each other. Lee had decided to shift his operating base from Newcastle to Manchester and Crane was planning to move out to the Canaries.
Crane remembered Lee’s words well and he knew they were genuinely meant.
He had given Crane a few contact numbers and then stepped out of Strangeways to build his life in the Manchester underworld, leaving Crane brooding and envious in his cell.
He thought that would be the last he saw of Lee, but had been proved wrong on his own release from clink, later the same year, 1996.
Unexpectedly, Lee met Crane at the gates in a gleaming white Roller with smoked-glass windows and a stunning Jewess in the back of it with the longest, shapeliest legs Crane had ever seen for many years, anyway. Lee took Crane to a pub in Crumpsall, north Manchester, where he threw Crane a ‘getting out’ party. This included an hour-long session with the Jewess in a first floor bedroom where Crane was fortunate enough to end up with those legs wrapped around various parts of his anatomy at different times.
At the end of the night Lee reiterated the words he’d said earlier to Crane and both men embraced each other.
It had seemed obvious to Billy Crane that when he needed muscle or equipment, a man like Jacky Lee was the one to approach, particularly as Crane had lost some contact with the part of the criminal world which could acquire shooters, cars, clothing and other blagging equipment easily.
Following the information-gathering sessions with Colin Hodge on La Gomera, Crane and Smith had flown back to England separately, both by roundabout routes. Smith went straight back to Blackpool to get things rolling from his end, and Crane went into Manchester to track down Jacky Lee.
He made his way back to the pub where his release party had been held. Very little had changed in the intervening years, except for when he asked the barman to put him in touch with Lee. It was only then that Crane learned of his death.
Crane had been a quick-thinking criminal since the age of ten. Although Lee’s death left him breathless for a moment or two, he quickly recovered and said, ‘Then, in that case I’d like to speak to whoever is looking after his business for him.’ Crane did not have time for sentimentality at that moment. That could come later, maybe. He needed quick action and if Lee’s successor could accommodate, then it was OK by him.
The barman made a discreet, hushed phone call.
‘Someone’ll come along and see you,’ he said on replacing the receiver. ‘Drink?’
Crane settled down to a mineral water at the bar, positioned so he could see all the doors. . . just in case.
He had a short wait. Twenty minutes later, two seedy-looking characters strutted confidently into the pub. The barman nodded
in Crane’s direction.
One of the men spoke to Crane without preamble or ceremony: ‘The message for you is that Gary Thompson now controls all of Jacky Lee’s businesses. He knows your name, knows your connection to Lee and says that if you are willing to talk, he is too. If not, fuck off’
‘Business is business,’ Crane said philosophically. ‘I want to talk.’
The man jerked his head. ‘Come on then, we’ll take you.’
Out in the car park they searched Crane, found him to be clean. He was then driven by them, in silence, in the back of a battered Granada out to Heywood near Rochdale, where Thompson was throwing the birthday party for his girlfriend’s thirtieth.
It was as Crane was led into Thompson’s presence that he came face to face, fleetingly, with Frank Jagger. Crane definitely felt he knew Jagger’s face, but could not place him. Things moved so positively and quickly with Thompson that Crane did not have time to dwell on the encounter with Jagger, or ask any questions about him.
Crane revealed his plan to Thompson in a cautious way, saying that he wanted to hit a security van that was carrying a quarter of a million - tops. Big money by any standards. To have told Thompson that fifty million was up for grabs would have been asking for trouble. That kind of money makes people go glassy-eyed and start to scheme. £250,000 ensured that greed stayed more controlled.
Crane had holed up in a south Manchester hotel, near to the airport.
On the evening that Frank Jagger was due to sell a van full of stolen whisky to Thompson, Crane and Smith were dining in the hotel restaurant, bringing each other up to date on the progress of their arrangements.
Things were going smoothly.
Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov were eager to get involved in the blagging themselves. They would form the bulk of the personnel who would carry out the job. Smith was well on with his side of things: guns were being obtained from dealers all over the North so that no one person would get nosy after supplying a lot of hardware all at once; vehicles were being prepared by a car ringer in Blackpool. And Colin Hodge was still sweet and eager.