by Nick Oldham
In the end, because it didn’t look as though Danny’s body could ever be released, he made a plea to the Foreign Office; he didn’t give a shit about himself, but Danny’s devastated parents were being messed about from pillar to post by the Spanish police and enough was enough. Keeping her body in the freezer would achieve nothing. He begged the FO to intervene and pull some strings. . . and incredibly, they did. From a high level, the order came down for her body to be returned and at last, the parents could have some sort of closure. Henry had met Danny’s mother and father during this period and he became a crutch for them, a role which put him under massive personal pressure. He desperately wanted to blab his relationship with their daughter to them, but felt he could not, for her sake. That would have put them over the edge, after all the business with Jack Sands, her ex-lover, topping himself not many months before. Another relationship with a married man. . . Henry could have imagined their reactions.
And while all this was going on, there was the question of Billy Crane to sort out, which also fell to Henry.
The day after Danny’s death, a specially trained armed unit of the Spanish police carried out a pre-dawn raid at Crane’s Gomerian villa.
As is so often the case in such matters, the actual laying of hands on Billy Crane was a very subdued affair, an anti-climax. He was roused from bed by four armed officers and submitted dazedly to their pidgin-English instructions. He offered no resistance, but maintained his silence other than to demand the services of a lawyer. At Tenerife he was incarcerated awaiting extradition proceedings. His slick brief, a man who was used to representing British felons in Spain - usually on the Costas - presented all types of delaying tactics. Henry doubted whether he would see Crane in the UK this side of six months.
The location of the stolen money remained a mystery. Despite the efforts of Lancashire Constabulary’s Financial Investigators and those from the Metropolitan Police and Interpol, and a raiding party on all the bank accounts belonging to Billy Crane, the money was not recovered. Crane’s accounts did reveal £3.1 million from drugs dealing, and proceedings were instituted to freeze the money and ultimately seize it. As the weeks went by, though, the likelihood of finding the money from the heist seemed less and less probable.
What did seem likely was that Lawrence Brayfield, once he had recovered from his shoulder wound, would leave Tenerife, go into a witness protection programme and in the due course of time - after he had successfully given evidence against Crane - receive his reward money.
It was during the course of one of Henry’s many conversations with Loz that he was reminded, purely by chance, of the existence of Nero the lion. Henry had charged out of the hospital ward and raced to Uncle B’s where he found the emaciated, barely-living animal, surviving against the odds in a disgusting shit-hole. The Spaniards immediately wanted to have him destroyed, but Henry was in no mood for another unnecessary death, nor the possibility of litigation that might follow; the police had a duty of care for prisoners’ property and the destruction of Nero could easily have been used as another delaying tactic by Crane’s legal eagle.
A place was found for Nero in a private zoo on Lanzarote where after only a few days’ recuperation he established himself as the dominant male in the resident pride, beat the living daylights out of the incumbent king, and claimed several lionesses in a mad whirl of sexual domination. . . so there was one happy ending at least.
And while all this was going on, the internal structure of Henry Christie, delicately balanced at the best of times, was close to collapse.
He was only grateful that he had to spend a great deal of time commuting backwards and forwards to Tenerife. Time spent with his wife and daughters was proving so difficult for him. Kate remained supportive but slightly aloof and he once caught her looking at him, on one of his infrequent visits home in those weeks, rather contemptuously. He wondered if she knew, or suspected, about him and Danny. Had she guessed? Or had it been so obvious that a blind person could have read the signs?
The time he had in Tenerife was busy, but this was the only opportunity he had to be alone to grieve for the woman who, rightly or wrongly, had grown on him and with whom he had fallen in love. His hotel rooms became places of retreat, for crying, for heavy drinking, for thinking and coming to terms with her death, knowing he could never tell anyone about their relationship; knowing he somehow had to pick up the pieces of his life and make a decision about the future and leave Danny behind. Easy to say, not so easy to put into practice - particularly having discovered something that completely blitzed his mind during Danny’s autopsy, something he prayed would not become general knowledge.
She was cremated one week after her body had been flown back from Tenerife, six weeks to the day after her death. The service took place in a crematorium outside Burnley in East Lancashire, the town of her birth, not far away from the dinosaur-like bulk of Pendle Hill. There was a huge police presence. The Chief Constable attended and several of the ACCs, including Fanshaw-Bayley. Karl Donaldson, Henry’s friend from the FBI office in London, also came, having met Danny previously on another enquiry.
Henry was relieved when it was over. Kate sidled up next to him, hugged him and looked up with a hesitant smile. There were tears in her eyes. Henry responded with a weak grin. He knew things had moved on too far for him to slip back into his old life. He had fallen deeply in love with Danny, and her death had devastated him. Some major decisions were now due to be made about his future. Being with Kate felt wrong, somehow - for both of them - but in his grieving state, the phrasing of the sentence with the word ‘divorce’ in it eluded him.
Most of the police contingent from Blackpool had come to the funeral by coach. As is the fairly cold culture of the police on such occasions, they stopped off on their way back at a pub on the outskirts of Blackpool to pay their last respects to Danny by way of alcoholic consumption. Henry, Kate and Donaldson - who was staying overnight at the Christies’ - having driven across to Burnley by car, decided to join them. Kate generously offered to drive the rest of the way home so that Henry had the chance to have a few drinks.
By the time they arrived, the coach had de-bussed and there was a deep throng of thirsty people crowded round the bar of the unsuspecting pub. Somewhere amongst them FB could be heard demanding that he be bought drinks by his detectives.
After getting their own drinks, Henry, Kate and Donaldson claimed a quiet spot in the bar where they could hear themselves talk. Kate excused herself and went to the Ladies’. After a few moments, Donaldson needed to go too - and suddenly Henry found FB sitting next to him, a drink in each hand.
‘Quick chat, Henry.’ Someone put some money in the jukebox and loud music began to pound. FB leaned towards Henry’s right ear. ‘Just want to bring you up to date with Rupert Davison.’
In the scheme of things, Davison had receded to mean nothing to Henry. In fact, he had virtually forgotten the man. However, he feigned interest in what FB was saying.
‘Suspended on full pay,’ the ACC informed him. ‘Big internal enquiry going on - the missing interview tapes and all that. Apparently the rubber heel squad’ - by which FB meant Complaints and Discipline - ‘did a telephone check on him for the night you got blown out of the water by Elphick. Davison made a call to Gary Thompson’s mobile number. Obviously we don’t know what was said, but it’s pretty incriminating; and there’s also video tape footage of him stealing the tapes from the Custody Office, from the camera in there, so the Custody Sergeant’s in the clear and Rupert’s in the shit. Add that to what he said to you in the LEC and I think he’s for the high-jump.’
‘And no doubt he’ll end up getting a slap on the wrist and a transfer to some piss-easy office job,’ Henry growled bitterly.
‘You’re such a cynic, Henry. Anyway, don’t be surprised if you get called as a witness against him at some stage.’
‘I won’t. Thanks for letting me know, boss.’
FB took a swig of one of his drinks. ‘By the way
. . .’ He tapped his nose. ‘I got to see the full post-mortem report of DS Furness.’ He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘Secret’s safe with me.’ He gave Henry a big wink, stood up and walked away.
Kate Christie hated using lavatories in public houses, but at least the cubicle she entered was clean. As she locked the flimsy door and sat down, she heard two women come into the toilets. She did not recognise their voices, but it was obvious they were part of the police contingent from Blackpool, probably two policewomen. They had come in to freshen up, not to pee, and they stood at the wash-basins, preening themselves in the mirrors as they chatted.
The memory of the conversation Kate Christie overheard remained clear in her mind long afterwards, and formed the basis of the divorce papers which were later served on Henry Christie, her cheating husband.
This is what Kate heard.
‘God, that was really, really sad.’
‘Yeah, tragic. Dead nice she was, Danny.’
‘What a way to go, though.’
‘Yeah, ‘orrible. Really, really sad.’
‘At least she died happy.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, I head she was having an affair with Henry Christie. So - she was out in Tenerife with him and they must’ve combined work with shagging.’
‘God, I didn’t know that ... but he is a bit of all right, isn’t he? I’d let him fuck my brains out.’
‘Me too. He’s shagged a few, y’know... and I’ve heard something else too - but you mustn’t tell anyone.’
‘Go on. I won’t.’
‘I’ve heard that Danny Furness was up the spout. Preggers. Post-mortem apparently showed it . . . very, very recent pregnancy.’
‘Bloody ‘ell! So it must’ve been Henry Christie, the dirty fucker. Wonder if his wife knows.’
‘I doubt it - have you seen her? All soppy and like a puppy dog around him. Sad bitch. . . Anyway, c’mon, I’ve got a drink and a fella waiting.’
The two women left the toilets and Kate emerged from the cubicle. She washed her hands, dried them and walked slowly back into the pub, trancelike in her appearance.
Henry was still sitting alone. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his colleagues around him. He was under no illusions about keeping Danny’s pregnancy under wraps, just as he was under no illusion that his rape would one day seep out and become public knowledge; in the police, secrets are never well kept. He wondered if his wife would ever find out about either.
Kate stood in front of him. Henry looked up at her. Immediately he knew that she knew.
Quietly, she said, ‘I didn’t want to believe it, Henry, not again. Not after what we’ve been through. How could you hurt me again? I thought that sort of thing was over. I was wrong, obviously. Even when I dialled 1471 that day and Danny’s number came up, I still didn’t completely believe you’d cheat on me again.’
‘Kate . . .’ Henry began, getting to his feet.
‘NO!’ she said sharply. Henry’s mouth closed. ‘Is it . . . was it . . . your baby?’ she asked simply.
Henry hesitated and that was enough.
‘In that case,’ Kate’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper, ‘our marriage has just ended.’ She walked away without a further word.
It was only by pure chance that the police eventually stumbled on Don Smith’s home address. The ground-floor resident in a small block of private flats in Lytham St Anne’s, just south of Blackpool, awoke one morning to see his bathroom ceiling sagging and leaking, about to collapse, from a water burst in the flat above. Unable to think of anyone else to help, he called the police, who responded. A bobby arrived and when he could not get a reply from the upper flat, nor find anyone with a key, he forced an entry on the pretext that there might be a body lying undiscovered. He didn’t find anyone decomposing, but switched off the water and called a plumber out.
A search of the flat, to try to trace the owner, uncovered documents relating to Don Smith. The officer was sufficiently switched on to make a connection and immediately informed the MIR at Headquarters.
Many pieces of evidence linking Smith to Crane and Colin Hodge were found in the flat. To Henry Christie, one of the most interesting was the rough draft of a letter Smith had obviously intended to send to Crane after the robbery.
It read, Dear Bill, by the time you read this you’ll be well pissed off with me. You see, I’m totally pissed off with you and have been since we screwed that building society in ‘86. How the fuck could you set me up for a fall, you bastard? You were quite happy to let me go to jail and for you to get away with it, weren’t you? I’m glad it backfired on you. I thought we were friends. Obviously not. It’s been festering in me ever since, so I thought I’d fuck you up too big style. . . (indecipherable) . . . so none of the money from the job turned up in any of yow; accounts, did it? Hah! That’ll fucking teach you. You’ll never find any of it - the guy who laundered it got instructions from me well before we handed the cash over to him and now it’s all in accounts belonging to me. .. (more squiggles. . . indecipherable) . . . so I used you like you used me. And don’t bother trying to find me. I’ve got enough money to keep ten steps ahead of you. The letter ended there, unfinished, unsigned.
Henry had guessed correctly that it would take six months to complete extradition proceedings against Billy Crane.
It was a torrid six months for Henry. He was served with divorce papers, shunned by his daughters, barely acknowledged by his own mother and overworked in the office, sorting out the complex legal aftermath of the robbery and murders. He sat through discussions with divorce solicitors, where he learned he would be unlikely to come away with anything other than his pants; he sat through court proceedings in Tenerife, most of which he could not follow, and moved out of his home into lodgings with another would-be divorce on his uppers. They made a very sad pair, sitting night after night in front of a portable black and white TV, eating pre-cooked dinners and drinking cheap Belgian lager. Henry hated his new existence, but Kate was unrepentant.
Henry and Dave Seymour picked up Billy Crane from Tenerife on the day the extradition hearings finished. Henry cuffed Crane with rigid handcuffs and kept them firmly on the villain’s wrists throughout the flight, despite Crane’s constant whingeing and threats.
Even though Henry had, by default, beaten Alexandr Drozdov to Crane, he remained cautious. He had arranged to be met at Manchester by a firearms team for protection. After landing and once all the other passengers had disembarked, only then did Henry, Crane and Seymour leave the plane.
Henry breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the four armed cops waiting at the gate, all kitted out and tooled up with body armour and deadly weapons. They accompanied the prisoner and his escorts through the airport, by-passing Customs by prior arrangement. Three cars were waiting outside the arrivals hall. They were directed to the middle car. Henry sat in the front passenger seat - pulling rank on Seymour, who sat in the back with Crane. The firearms team divided themselves up between the front and rear cars.
The escort began to roll.
‘Made it,’ Henry said over his shoulder to Crane, who responded with a grunt.
They drove out from underneath the covered underpass and accelerated up to the first roundabout, less than 200 yards ahead. They needed to go round this and loop back towards the motorway system.
‘Glad to be back?’ Henry asked.
‘Great,’ Crane said sourly.
The car slowed at the roundabout, almost to a stop.
Henry gave a laugh, cut short in his nasal passage as the window next to Crane disintegrated into minute fragments as the first bullet smashed it, went right through the car and exited via the window next to Dave Seymour. There was no time for any sort of reaction as a high-velocity bullet - later to be identified as 7.62mm fully jacketed, standard NATO ammunition, travelling at 2,700 feet per second - entered Crane’s right ear canal on a certain pathway to his brain. Once the trajectory of the shell had been interfered with by str
iking Crane’s flesh and bone, it tumbled over and over through his head and burst out through his left temple, causing a devastating wound which removed most of the left side of his face, killing him instantly.
DC Dave Seymour was lucky to survive. The shell, deflected in Crane’s head, twisted downwards and slammed into the car door by the detective’s left knee. He was, however, showered with blood and debris and several shards of Crane’s skull stuck into his thigh like darts.
Crane slumped across Seymour’s fat thighs, the blood, bones, slush and brains spilling out over the unfortunate detective. Crane’s brain stem had been pulverised, the nerves channelled through it comprehensively destroyed. He did not even experience any reflexive motor action - just pitched over and died.
By the time the firearms team reacted - almost instantaneously - it was too late. The killing shot had been made and the offenders fled.
It did not take long to discover where their lair had been - on top of a grassy bank in the landscaped grass nearby, hidden by low bushes, about 150 yards away from the roundabout. Their weapons had been discarded, left behind. One was a Heckler & Koch sniping rifle - the one used to break the window; the other an Accuracy International Sniper Rifle which had been the one to deliver the fatal shot. It was obvious that a pair of highly trained marksmen had been working together with devastating effect; one to take out the window, thereby removing any barrier to total accuracy, the other one to follow up and kill Billy Crane. They had fired within a milli-second of each other. It had been superb shooting.
As Henry took charge of the scene, deep down inside he was not surprised by what had happened. He had always suspected that old man Drozdov would want to see his vengeful legacy for his grandson enacted before he died himself.
For more information about Nick Oldham and his books visit www.nickoldham.net or ‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905