The Last Big Job

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Yep, OK,’ Gunk said brightly as though nothing untoward had happened. He folded the mouthpiece of his mobile and slid it into his back pocket. As he had listened to the call he had wandered away from Henry and Terry. He turned and smiled at them. They smiled back, unaware of any problem. Gunk’s eyes focused briefly on Henry. This was just the opportunity he had been waiting for.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Gunk asked Terry. He pressed the button to open the shutter doors. Terry climbed into the van and started up. He drew slowly out of the unit, Gunk and Henry walking alongside.

  ‘Frank,’ Gunk said quietly to Henry, ‘that was Gary on the phone. He wonders if you could spare the time to go and see him - like now. About those ciggies you offered him.’

  Henry tutted. ‘I’ve got other things on. I’d really like to, but I can’t.’

  ‘It’s business - you won’t get a second chance.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Henry sighed.

  ‘At home. You follow me. I’ll pay you for this lot over a drink, civilised like.’ He patted his pocket to indicate he was carrying the whisky money.

  ‘OK,’ Henry said reluctantly. Actually it was an offer he could not refuse - to get into Thompson’s home was a major step forwards.

  ‘You can fuck him off - we don’t need him,’ Gunk said about Terry.

  ‘Sure.’ Henry walked up to Terry who was leaning out of the van window. Gunk was by Henry’s shoulder, listening, making it impossible for Henry to say anything discreetly to Terry, even though he would not have done anyway. ‘Thanks, pal,’ Henry called. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He gave him a thumbs-up.

  Terry got the message and pulled away, bouncing across the ground towards the road.

  Henry and Gunk stood side by side, watched the tail-lights disappear. As the sound of the engine grew fainter, Gunk launched a ferocious punch into the side of Henry’s skull, sending him staggering away. He followed it up by another equally hard drive in much the same place. Henry’s legs gave up the ghost and before he even knew he’d been hit, he was unconscious on the ground.

  She was smoking too much, she knew. However, a meal like the one she had just eaten needed to be complemented with at least two cigarettes and a Tia Maria to make her feel warm and mellow. She lit up and inhaled deeply. The perfect end, Danny thought happily. If only she was now going to be seduced by some slick Spanish millionaire, her evening would have been complete.

  As it was, she would be alone.

  She called for the bill and the highly attentive waiter scurried to the request. She tipped him generously and bade him a sweet goodnight. He looked desolate and lovelorn as he watched her walking away from the restaurant, wringing a towel in his hands.

  At the next-but-one restaurant along, Loz finished his San Miguel and tossed a few coins on to the table, began to tail Danny.

  She sauntered down on to the promenade and stood by the edge of the beach where she lit yet another cigarette and gazed at the intricately constructed sand sculptures which had been created during the day by artistic beach bums. The sky above was phenomenally clear. The stars sparkled like they’d just been polished. Danny hugged herself. The troubles of her recent past seemed far away in this environment. The memory of Jack Sands was nebulous and fading. Her feelings for Henry Christie had been firmly dealt with, she believed. She would not touch another married man with a barge pole, she promised herself. Too dangerous and complicated by half, and there were never any winners. What kind of appealed to her was a divorce, all the angst of separation put behind him, with maybe a couple of kids - eight, nine years old, say - who needed a mother. That would be good: an instant family.

  Something dawned on her. Maybe this was the missing link in her life. God, what a strange sensation. . . but she suddenly wanted to be a mother.

  Her legs went weak. Married and a mother, that’s what I want.

  Christ, she thought fearfully. Am I cracking up? Is this really my brain in my head? Is this really my own feeling in the pit of my stomach?

  She had totally shocked herself.

  The jolt did not last for long.

  Loz, who had been shadowing her, moved in - aware that other people were about, but knowing that if he was quick, he could get away with it. He strode up behind Danny. His good hand went between her legs and grabbed her crotch, squeezing tightly. His bandaged arm wrapped around her throat and pulled her backwards into him so that his rough, unshaven cheek was next to her ear.

  She instantly smelled his breath and sweat and the pungent odour from his hand.

  ‘You shouldn’t wear such short skirts,’ Loz growled in her ear. He squeezed tighter between her legs.

  Danny struggled.

  ‘No fucking chance.’ Loz’s grip grew stronger. He bundled her down on to the beach, a hand wrapped around her face to prevent her screaming. The smell made her gag. He withdrew his hand from her sex and punched her short, sharp and hard in the lower back. Danny tried a back-jab, but Loz stepped out of range and laughed. He propelled her towards a row of fishing boats drawn up on the sand by the edge of the sea, dark and unlit, deep black shadow cast between them.

  The half-bucket of water was hurled into his face brought him round, though he remained totally disorientated. He shook his head, which, at first, he thought was face down on a hard floor, but the rest of his body didn’t seem to link in with that idea. And his arms. He could not move his arms. They were trapped in something like a vice. He swooned again, fading out of consciousness. Another dash of cold water cascaded over him, reviving him, jogging his memory.

  Terry had driven away and Gunk had smashed him on the side of the head with a fist like a brick. Then there was nothing until this.

  Henry’s eyes fluttered open. He was still unable to decide what was going on. He tried to move, to pull himself up. He moved his throbbing head round, muttering, ‘What’s going. . .?’ and only then did it fall into place. He was bent over a Black & Decker Workmate. His arms had been pushed through the jaws which had then been tightened up. His wrists were handcuffed together by twine, which was also wrapped around the cross member which joined the legs of the workmate. The whole thing was weighted down with some of the heavy circular weights from the multi-gym making it virtually immovable.

  Henry moved his head round again. Gunk stepped into his line of sight, wearing a stupid grin of triumph.

  ‘Hiya, Frank - or whatever your name is.’

  ‘What’s going on, Gunk? What’s this for?’

  Gunk held up a silencing finger. ‘Shut up, Frank. I know you’re a cop.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? We’ve been through all this shit before. I am not a cop, so let me go.’

  Gunk shook his head. ‘I know you’re a cop. An undercover cop. I always knew, always suspected. Just something about you that never quite rang true for me. Intuition, I suppose you’d call it. Me in touch with my feminine side.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Gunk. Now let me go.’

  ‘I hate being done over by anybody, but when a cop does it, I’m really fucking annoyed.’ He leaned into Henry’s face. ‘So you know what? I’m going to make you suffer.’ He reached underneath Henry and found his belt buckle which he started to unfasten. All the while he retained eye-contact. ‘I, on the other hand, will enjoy this. Know what I mean?’

  Henry understood exactly. Gunk, who had previously indicated how much he would like to bugger Henry was now going to do just that. Henry started to struggle violently, all sorts of horrendous images flying through his mind. He strained against the twine which fastened his wrists.

  A gun appeared in Gunk’s hand. He shoved it into Henry’s cheek and roughly screwed the muzzle into Henry’s mouth, cracking against teeth. Henry stopped moving instantly. His eyes were wide open in fear. Gunk was breathing heavily.

  ‘Now then, Frank, if that’s what you want to be called, the choice you have is very simple. Honestly. Stop struggling and let this thing take its natural course like two grown men and I won’t be rough with
you. I mean, I will fuck you good and proper, that definitely will happen. Alternatively you can have a bullet in your mouth now. Your choice, pal. Death or rape.’ Gunk’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I know which I’d choose.’

  Loz threw Danny down on to the sand between two fishing boats, hardly fifty yards away from the promenade.

  He dropped on top of her like a dead weight, forcing himself between her legs, driving all the air out of her body, and pulling her skirt up over her hips. He jammed his dirty bandaged hand over her mouth and with his other he held her left wrist, effectively pinning her down. She could hardly move underneath him.

  ‘Now then, you fucking flighty bitch,’ he panted into her face, spittle bubbling out of his mouth. The exertion of the struggle with her across the beach had expended most of his stamina. However, he was on top, in control, had the power. He smiled wickedly and ground his pubic’ bone against hers. She whimpered. ‘You’ve been asking too many questions, causing too many ripples. This is just a warning to you - fuck off back to England and don’t come nosying down here again, or next time, you’re a dead bitch. Got that?’

  He allowed her to nod her head.

  ‘Good,’ he sneered. ‘But now that we’re here,’ he went on, ‘all intimate, no point in missing a chance, is there?’ He simply could not resist. He released her hand and reached down to unzip his trousers.

  Bad move on his part.

  Danny had no wish to discover what delicacy lay waiting behind his flies. Nor would she ever placidly accept being sexually assaulted. She would rather have died. She did two things simultaneously. Although his bandaged hand smelled awful, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into it; she also grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into his eyes and followed through with a punch, though it wasn’t as rock-solid as she would have liked.

  Loz screamed and rolled over, not knowing whether to nurse his hand or rub his eyes.

  ‘You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!’ he yelled in agony, getting to his knees.

  Danny had a surge of power and energy, resources tapped from the well of self-preservation. She smacked Loz hard across the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Then she really laid into him, screaming wildly, incoherently, savagely kicking him repeatedly about the head, ribs, guts and legs. He rolled with the blows, scrambling wildly to escape from the barrage, now having lost all the advantage.

  Danny was remorseless in her attack, until Loz secured a foothold in the sand, dragged himself to his feet and ran away.

  Danny watched him, her eyes afire, doubled over with exertion, unable to give chase. He loped on to the promenade like a wounded animal and disappeared up a side street.

  When she had regained control of her breathing and heart rate, Danny found her handbag in the sand and liberated a cigarette from it. She lit it with dithering hands.

  Now she knew for certain: she really had rattled somebody’s cage. She knew she should have reported the matter there and then to the police - but the thought of dealing with the Spanish cops filled her with dread. It would turn into a bureaucratic nightmare. .. if anything came of this, she wanted some English-speaking back-up behind her.

  Terry Briggs was feeling worried. He checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d driven away from Henry and Gunk. As he had pulled away, Henry had given a thumbs-up which, in the sign language the two undercover officers had developed between themselves, meant ‘call me in half an hour if I haven’t already made contact’.

  Terry had twice tried Henry’s mobile but had not been able to make a connection. It was possible Henry’s batteries were down or that his machine was switched off - but only possible, not probable. A working mobile phone was a lifeline for U/C officers these days and only a reckless one would let the mobile become inoperative. Henry wasn’t reckless.

  Terry had driven out of Rochdale and taken the road across the moors towards Blackburn. He had stopped close to a pub called Owd Bett’s.

  Forty minutes, then forty-five passed. Not good.

  Terry weighed up the odds of cocking the job up, but decided to drive back to the industrial unit anyway. He would think up some excuse for his return if necessary.

  He did a U-turn and headed back towards Rochdale. He went into Healey Dell from the opposite direction and bounced down the road towards the industrial estate. As he turned off the road, he slammed on to avoid Gunk’s Jeep which careered out of the estate, slithering and sliding on the loose ground, no lights displayed. Terry caught a glimpse of Gunk at the wheel. There was a savage expression on his features as he threw the fourwheel-drive vehicle around. Then he was gone. With trepidation Terry edged the van across the bumpy ground towards the unit.

  Henry’s XJS was parked in exactly the same spot.

  Terry’s stomach churned.

  Terry could see a light behind the shutter door. He reached under his seat and picked up the expandable baton secured underneath. With a flick of the wrist, he cracked it out to its full length. He switched the van engine off, leaving the headlights on, then stepped slowly down. All was quiet. He could hear nothing at first, then there was something, a sort of sobbing or moaning from inside the warehouse. He approached the side door, fear of the unknown gripping him, his chest palpitating. He stepped inside. Apprehensively with the tip of the baton he pushed the next door, the one which opened out into the unit.

  At the sight before him, Terry’s mouth dropped open in shock.

  PART TWO

  Terminal Ballistics

  Chapter Fifteen

  Through his dubious contacts in the north of Lancashire, Smith had arranged accommodation for himself and Billy Crane the night before the robbery was due to be committed in a grotty, damp-ridden flat in the west end of Morecambe, an area of town with a shifting population, where crime and drugs were facts of everyday life and strangers did not stand out because everyone was a stranger. It was a good choice of location.

  Billy Crane had been unable to get any real sleep. Three a.m. saw him up and about, making black coffee for himself after having to feed the electric meter with coins. He sat on the kitchen floor next to a cold oil-filled radiator, shivering as he sipped the brew.

  He moved into what was euphemistically known as the living room. The sum total of the furniture was a double-seater settee with its wiry insides protruding dangerously, and a creaky hard-backed dining chair. There was a gas fire, however, which Crane lit cautiously with a match. He half expected the thing to explode and end the biggest day of his life with a spectacular bang even before it had begun. Without switching the light on, Crane dragged the chair up to the window, sat on it and rubbed the condensation away. The street below was dark and quiet.

  His mind was alive, churning with endless questions. Had he done this, arranged that, seen to this, fixed that up? Going over every possibility and scenario in his mind, desperate to seek out the weak link in the coming hours. He was experienced and cynical enough to know there would be one, but he could not put his finger on it - other than to realise that, as in all crimes, the weak link was the human element. That is what always lets you down. The grass, the greed, the weakness, could never be truly catered for.

  He rolled his read. His neck cracked.

  A smile grew on his lips. He was unbelievably excited by the situation. He had thought he would never again turn to crime of this nature. Robbery was so old hat and very hard to pull off without getting caught that most big time operators like himself had turned to easier ways of making a living. And yet, actually committing a crime like this was better than anything; better than sex, better than the rush of a drug. It was the ultimate experience. Nothing could touch it. He curled his right hand into a fist and gave the air a little jab. ‘Yessss,’ he whispered behind gritted teeth. ‘Fucking good.’

  A cop car rolled on to the street, lights out, creeping slowly along. Instinctively Crane drew back, watched it progress past the building in which the flat was situated.

  It U-turned at the end of the street
and crawled back down. Then it was gone.

  Crane exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. He could feel his heart hammering, nerves twisting his innards. He was pleased he felt like this. On edge. Therefore sharp. Therefore able to perform.

  He stood up and walked into the bedroom, where Don Smith lay asleep on the rickety single bed. Crane slid into the sleeping bag on the floor and closed his eyes.

  There was a long day ahead.

  Colin Hodge reported for work at the Preston depot at 6 a.m. As driver for the day it was his responsibility to check over the vehicle, ensure the tank was full, it was clean, there was air in the tyres and that the electronic tracker system was working correctly; he also had to fill in the driver’s log and insert the tachograph. His check, as always, was thorough. It took half an hour, by which time his three colleagues had reported in.

  They had a quick brew in the refreshment room.

  Halfway through his cup of tea, Hodge stood up suddenly and said, ‘Jeez!’ He held his stomach and winced painfully. ‘Had a curry last night down at the Star ... urgh . . . it’s not agreeing with me at all. I’ve been shitting through the eye of a needle.’ After he had spoken these poetic words, conjuring up such a romantic image, and much to his workmates’ amusement, he rushed to the toilet.

  The ‘curry’ story was all part of the act. He had not eaten Indian the night before, but he needed to set the scene for the day ahead.

  Nevertheless he did have to go to the toilet in a hurry because his bowels were a maelstrom of fearful turbulence. It was the big day. The one he had dreamed of and planned for, the one which would end his relative poverty for good.