The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  Henry waited.

  ‘ Sorted it,’ Lee said with a wink. ‘Fish food. No more problems for Jack. See ya.’ He got out, slammed the door and slapped the roof and strode briskly, if unevenly, to the apartment block.

  ‘ Where to, sir?’ the driver asked through the intercom.

  Henry told him the name of a hotel in the city centre. The Rolls pulled quietly into the night. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the BMW was staying with him all the way.

  He sank into the comfortable seat and tried to control his pulse-rate, careful not to let the mask slip because the driver was constantly monitoring him in the rearview mirror. Henry was actually elated by the way things had gone. Without any pushing or probing, which could have put Lee on his guard, the crim had begun to talk about ‘having sorted his problem’ and once people like him began to brag, the rest was usually easy.

  Soon, Henry was sure, he would have Jack in the bag.

  Of course the refrigerator had gone. Because Jack Sands’s brains had been handily collected in it, there had been no need to bag up the bits and pieces. The fridge door had been closed and the whole thing accompanied the body to the mortuary where the pathologist had simply helped himself to particles of the skull and brains as required during the autopsy. Like he was raiding the fridge for a snack or something.

  But Danny could still see the scene, clear and graphic as ever in her mind’s eye.

  She remembered opening the kitchen door, full of apprehension.. And there he was. Jack Sands, former lover, lying with his head in the fridge, his legs and arms were splayed and twisted gruesomely. The single-barrelled shotgun lay by his right side. Danny had to step right into the kitchen to actually see his head.

  Or what was left of it.

  The shotgun had literally blown it right off.

  Somehow Sands had wedged the muzzle underneath his chin, in the cleft of soft skin in the ‘V’ of the lower jawbone, angled it slightly, stretched forward and pushed the trigger back with his right thumb. His long arms had easily reached down the length of the barrel.

  All because she had ended a relationship between them that was going nowhere, doing no one any favours.

  Danny had reeled away in horror back into the hallway and hurled up the contents of her stomach. She remembered little else about the next few minutes until the cops and ambulance people arrived on the scene.

  Now she stood and looked at the box-shaped space where her Zanussi had been positioned. She wondered how she should be reacting. Although the scene was still there with her, she found she actually felt very little now. As if it had all been a terrible dream.

  Certainly there was nothing here — now — in physical terms. No tangible memories of Jack. Indeed, prior to his suicide, Danny had emptied the house of all memories of him in a fit of pique.

  So there was nothing. Every last speck had been cleared away. All the mess which had managed to seep out of the fridge had been sponged away by Henry Christie and some other colleagues.

  Danny sighed, walked across the kitchen and plugged the kettle in. A nice, hot cup of tea, without milk, was a good enough homecoming.

  In his rage, Billy Crane had gone a whole lot further than he’d intended. He found himself possessed by some uncontrollable inner demon to punish Loz for the lack of judgement that had cost fifty grand.

  He’d dragged Loz down to the ground and forced the screaming man’s hand into the lion’s cage through the food-tray flap. Nero, his wild instincts fired up by the events outside his cage, leapt towards the hand. His two massive front paws smashed down on to it, talons extended, and his mouth opened wide, revealing his fearsome array of teeth… at which moment Crane realised that Nero was about to rip Loz’s arm off. With a curse on his lips, Crane tried desperately to extract Loz from the lion’s clutches.

  Nero responded by holding tighter, pulling harder and sinking his claws into the hand.

  The initial, searing pain had been incredible for Loz: the puncturing of the skin by those dirty, germ-laden claws. Then, mercifully, endorphins and other body chemicals kicked into Loz’s system and it all became unreal for him. A blur. He went limp and allowed it to proceed, unable to put up any fight or struggle.

  With one last almighty wrench, Crane managed to drag Loz to safety, though Nero’s talons dug deep, leaving lines of ripped flesh in the back of the little man’s hand.

  Deprived of his kill, the lion roared terribly, throwing himself against the cage in a frenzy. For a while Crane was fearful that Nero had the power to pull the structure down. But it held. Just.

  Twenty minutes later Crane had calmed down, smoked his fourth cigarette. He sat on a chair, elbows on knees, deep in thought.

  Loz cried softly on the rooftop, holding his injured arm between his knees. He rocked like a baby, in a pool of his own blood. The arm was in a terrible mess.

  ‘ Help me,’ he whined. ‘Billy — help me, man.’

  Crane stood up, tossed his cigarette down and stamped it out. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ he announced, turned and left Loz lying there.

  Nero, now also calm, having devoured the remaining contents of the coolbox, sat regally inside the cage, eyes focused on Loz.

  Chapter Three

  The next day started in a haze of confusion for Henry Christie. He woke groggily to the sound of not one, but both his mobile phones ringing. He rolled across the expansive double bed and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  Then, a little more focused, he blinked down at his phones which seemed to be in competition with each other as to which one could produce the more ludicrous ringing tone. Which was which? Henry had to stop and think for a moment. God, he wasn’t used to this crap. He was out of practice and that could become a problem. A fatal problem if he wasn’t careful.

  Which was business? Which was private?

  He plumped for one of the phones — it didn’t help that they were exactly the same make and model, either — and stuffed the other one underneath a pillow to drown out its chirping. Then he pressed one of the buttons to receive the call.

  ‘ Frank Jagger,’ he said. Already his heartbeat was on the increase.

  The Russian had been on the road for two hours. He had driven north from Portsmouth, picked up the A34 and skirted around Oxford before joining the M40 northbound towards Birmingham.

  Before setting off on his journey, he had quickly but expertly checked the car, firstly for any explosive devices and secondly for any tracking or surveillance equipment. He found neither. Then as he drove, he had remained cautious, always keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, noting and remembering vehicles behind and in front (he had a prodigious memory for car numbers, makes and colours), carefully watching those overtaking, those allowing him to overtake and those parked in lay-bys. By the time he was driving down the motorway slip road north of Oxford, he was almost sure — he never allowed himself to be a hundred per cent certain — that no one was following him. The Russian had been at this game for a long time and was proud of his professionalism. This is what had kept him — alive and put others underground.

  In the world of counter- and anti-surveillance, the Russian was classed as a trained agent — which he was. Surveillance subjects fall into three categories: the type who are totally unaware; those who are crude but aware — and this refers to people who are expecting to be followed and who indulge in anti-surveillance methods to try to detect whether they are under observation. And lastly, as mentioned, the trained agent who is subtle and sophisticated and could easily be taken by watchers as someone who is totally unaware.

  The Russian hardly ever indulged in obvious anti-surveillance tactics. He usually discovered if he was being followed using the one, two, three method; one sighting of a person or vehicle is acceptable; two sightings is coincidence… three means someone definitely has him under surveillance. Only then would he take some form of action, probably evasion — unless he wanted to kill his followers.

  As he drove on to the motorway, he was feeling c
ontent. Six miles down the motorway, having travelled at a respectable speed, even slowly overtaking a cruising police Range Rover at one stage, he was even more sure — not a hundred per cent, of course — that no one was with him.

  At the second motorway service area he came to — Warwick — he exited. He needed food. He had left Portsmouth without eating breakfast. He also needed to use the toilet.

  The service area was nicely set away from the noise of the motorway.

  The Russian parked, got out of the car and leaned against it whilst he smoked a cigarette. He watched arrivals and departures and listened to the sky. Not for a helicopter, but a plane. More difficult to spot — impossible when driving — and he knew the British security services often used light planes to tail suspects on the move… but there was no sign or sound of anything.

  Satisfied, he inhaled the last of his cigarette and went for breakfast.

  Henry Christie pressed the ball of his right foot on to the accelerator pedal. The big Jaguar XJS surged away from the lights, leaving everything else standing. It was the only perk of the job, he was thinking. Being able to pose around in this motor — just like the flash crim he was. He could think of nothing else that was as good as he hung a left and found himself driving alongside the Manchester Ship Canal towards the apartment block where he had left Jacky Lee the previous night. He pulled into the visitors’ parking bay and left the Jag there. Locked up and alarmed, of course. The Firm wouldn’t be very pleased with him if thirty-odd grand’s worth of car got lifted by a Mancunian car thief.

  He swaggered cockily to the front entrance, fixing the unnecessary Ray-Bans on to the bridge of his nose, and was buzzed through into the reception area. A security guard observed him suspiciously as he walked to the desk. Henry cast the man a quick, supercilious look of contempt, achieved by a slight raising of the nose. He thrust his hands into the black leather reefer jacket and leaned against the reception counter.

  ‘ Mr Lee’s expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’

  The pretty woman looked up and Henry acknowledged her by lifting up his sunglasses and giving her a quick wink and a smile. She pressed a button. The lift doors to her right hissed open. ‘Top floor,’ she said sweetly, returning the smile.

  ‘ Cheers,’ said Henry, repositioning the sunglasses with his forefinger.

  He entered the lift and pressed the required button. The doors slid to quietly. Even though he was alone, Henry did nothing other than to lounge against the side of the lift, — fold the sunglasses into his jacket pocket, yawn and rub the stubble on his chin. Frank Jagger yawned a lot and tended not to shave. Two of his character traits.

  Henry was also aware there was a CCTV camera installed in the top corner of the lift and that — most probably — his progress through the building was being monitored by Lee or his men. Henry could not afford to let anything slip at any time, or under any circumstances. It all had to be perfect. He was dying to scratch the small of his back where the wire was strapped on with sticky tape.

  The Russian made good progress after leaving Warwick. He skirted around Birmingham to join the M6 with surprisingly little delay and kept travelling north, up into Lancashire, remaining constantly vigilant.

  His next stop was at Lancaster motorway services, northbound, at Forton. Here he employed the same checking procedure as at Warwick, and once again saw no one, heard nothing to rouse his suspicion. He used the toilets, had a quick cup of tea and a sandwich and returned to his car. Deciding it was about time he inspected his hardware, he opened the boot and pulled back the spare wheel cover. Inside the hub of the wheel was a plastic package bound by elastic bands. The Russian removed the package, re-covered the spare and slammed the boot shut.

  Without opening the package, he slid it underneath the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, after refuelling — cash only — he was back on the motorway, coming off at the next junction 33 — where he joined the A6, back-tracked a couple of miles south towards Garstang and found a quiet lay-by.

  Here he unwrapped the package and peered inside. He was reassured to see he had been provided with what he had requested. Firstly, the American Arms Spectre auto loading pistol, 9mm, thirty-shot magazine capacity with one extra in the chamber; six-inch barrel, 72 oz in weight, adjustable sights with a blue finish. Secondly a Browning BDM pistol, 9mm, capacity of fifteen plus one, with a 4.73-inch barrel, adjustable sights and, again, a blue finish. Spare magazines were also included. He folded the package and replaced it under the seat.

  Jacky Lee’s apartment was bright and beige, spotless and huge, typical of the kind of place inhabited by wealthy criminals without any specific taste in furniture, fittings, or art. Its immense size struck Henry as soon as he stepped out of the lift. It was his first time up here and he was impressed. In the dim, distant past, Henry had been to Lee’s family home, a farmhouse in the Northumbrian countryside which Jacky shared with his wife and kids.

  At this moment, though, Lee was obviously not thinking too deeply about his wife. He was sitting at a smoked-glass-topped dining table dressed in a very short towelling robe which rode up to the top of his thighs. Henry hoped he was wearing underpants. Lee was stuffing a croissant into his mouth. Directly opposite him sat a stunning-looking woman with a wide, oval face, attired in an equally revealing robe sagging open at her chest, showing a deep cleavage. Henry thought she would have looked wonderful in just about anything.

  ‘ Hey, Frank, you cunt!’ Lee shouted through his mouthful. ‘Get in here.’ He flapped his fingers at a spare chair at the table.

  Henry slid off his jacket and tossed it over a coffee-table. He walked across the apartment, noting the view of the canal basin was tremendous now that it had been developed. He plonked himself confidently down on the chair and picked up a cup which he reckoned to wipe clean with his fingers. He reached for the coffee in a jug on a hot plate.

  Lee wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘ Mornin’ Jacky,’ Henry said. It was actually a minute after noon. He nodded at the woman and was caught briefly — stunningly — by the flash of her wonderful wide brown eyes. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was already searingly jealous of Jacky Lee.

  ‘ This is Natasha,’ Lee said. He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘And if you even think of laying a finger on her, you’ll have to answer to me.’ He laughed coldly.

  ‘ The thought would never even enter my head,’ Henry reassured him, feeling uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t there. However, as Frank Jagger, he didn’t give a shit. Women were merely appendages in Jagger’s world. Something to be used and discarded. Something to have hanging from your arm. The prettier and dumber the better — but he guessed that Natasha was far from dumb.

  Henry took a drink of coffee, his eyes playing over the rim of the big breakfast cup at Lee and his lady friend, wondering how he had allowed himself to be dragged into this game again.

  He had only himself to blame. Two and a half months earlier he had been operating as a Divisionally based Detective Inspector in charge of reactive CID operations at Blackpool. He was a busy man. Sorting out the messy suicide of fellow DI Jack Sands as well as the aftermath of the murder of a paedophile, together with the escape from custody of a dangerous child murderer called Louis Vernon Trent who had consistently outmanoeuvred the police in their efforts to recapture him. And lots of other things. It was all fairly easy, undemanding work for a detective of his calibre, well within his capabilities.

  Then, out of the blue, he got a call to attend Headquarters to see the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. It had actually been Fanshaw-Bayley, known in short as FB, who had summoned him personally by phone. Cagey and obtuse as ever, he had refused to tell Henry what he wanted to see him for. Just: ‘Get your arse across here now.’ FB was fondly regarded for his way with words.

  Annoyed, frustrated — and not a little worried — Henry had done as bid. Summonses to parade on at HQ come few and far between. Usually they are for promotion or bo
llocking. Henry knew he was not going to be promoted… and as he drove the twenty or so miles from Blackpool to Headquarters, just to the south of Preston, his heart was beating faster than it should have done. His mind kept asking, ‘What have you done this time, Henry?’

  He was spirited quickly through FB’s secretary’s office into FB’s own palatial one, recently redecorated, overlooking the rugby pitch. FB was sitting behind his desk, wallowing in his new leather swivel chair. This was the man who, over the years, had caused Henry some grief and heartache. Henry did not like him at all, but suspected FB quite liked him in a perverted sort of way, although he did not often show it and usually treated Henry like shite.

  On the other side of the desk was another man. Henry did not recognise him immediately.

  ‘ Henry, what the fuck took you so long?’ FB said jovially and bounced up to his feet. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Davison from Greater Manchester Police.’

  Henry shook the man’s hand, eyeing him uncertainly. Somewhere in the depths of his mind there was a vague tinge of familiarity.

  ‘ Used to be one of us until he deserted ship,’ FB said.

  ‘ Ahh.’ Henry released Davison’s hand. ‘I thought I recognised the face,’ he lied whitely. Actually he still had not placed him.

  ‘ Our paths have crossed,’ Davison said worryingly.

  ‘ Tea? Coffee?’ FB asked Henry.

  ‘ Tea, please.’

  FB pointed towards a spare chair. ‘Pull it up, sit down.’ He intercommed his secretary and ordered the beverages, sat down and leaned back, interlocking his fingers across his chest. He beamed at Henry. ‘Isn’t this nice?’

  ‘ Er…’ Henry raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them and shrugged his shoulders. Not promotion, didn’t look like a bollocking.. so what the hell was it? ‘What can I do for you, sir?’