The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  The Russian scanned the pack a few times, then handed it back. He and the man made no eye-contact and the remainder of the journey passed in silence. The Russian was at a window seat, watching the Paris skyline draw closer. It was a city he loved. He regretted not being able to spend much time in it. After tonight, his second hit in the city, he doubted he would ever return for pleasure.

  When the target appeared at the time specified in the brief and sat down as predicted, the Russian was pleased. It meant homework had been done. It also meant the target was a creature of habit, something that no underworld player could afford to be. Not if he wanted to stay alive.

  The Russian wiped his mouth and checked his watch. Two minutes to go.

  He had already called for the bill and placed a generous amount on the saucer. Generous enough for the waiter to develop a fogged memory.

  Only then did he reach underneath the table to remove the handgun that had been taped there. The Russian did not check it. The briefing note had specified where it was to be found, that the safety would be off and that the gun would be wrapped in a plastic bag to prevent the spent cartridges ejecting. That was a nice touch, the Russian had thought. Empty cartridges meant evidence. The note also said there would be a bullet in the breech and therefore the gun would be ready for immediate use.

  He stood up and strolled slowly out the cafe. It was a warm night. Many of the outer tables were taken. People chatted happily, concentrating on their food and wine.

  He weaved between them, came up swiftly behind the target and simply fired four shots into his head. The Russian had been informed what type of bullets would be in the gun. The damage done to the man’s head confirmed this.

  Two long strides took the Russian to the edge of the pavement.

  Seemingly from nowhere, a trials bike screamed across in front of him, two on board. The passenger held open a black plastic bag into which the Russian dropped the pistol. The bike revved, slewed away into the traffic and disappeared, immediately replaced by a black Citroen. The rear passenger door swung open and the Russian coolly flopped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. The car accelerated away. The Russian did not have the slightest inclination to glance back over his shoulder to see the terrified confusion he had left in his wake.

  It had been an easy hit of the type he had pulled a dozen times before.

  He was whisked away by more silent men, herded from one car to another around the outer perimeter of Paris until he found himself in the front passenger seat of a sleek Peugeot sports car, heading south towards Orleans. From there he changed vehicles again and travelled through the night to Clermont-Ferrand where he was ushered into a grimy hotel for a few hours. Another car picked him up at dawn and transferred him to the airport. Posing as a Swiss businessman he flew to Rome. From there he picked up a short flight to Luqa Airport on the island of Malta.

  The last leg of his journey was by helicopter to Gozo, Malta’s sister island, and then by hire car to a villa in the village of Gharb where he had been crashed out ever since pulling the trigger.

  Other than the staff — cook and gardener — he was alone in the stone villa. This suited him. He developed his tan and maintained his fitness by using the small gym and pool. He relaxed by reading some naval fiction, particularly Patrick O’Brian novels which he adored. He had picked these up at Rome.

  He knew he would be safe at the villa. The place was owned, via a chain complex enough to deter even the most dedicated investigator, by a Mafia family from Naples who did regular business with the Russian’s master — the Drozdovs.

  It was on the eighth day of his sojourn that his relaxed mind churned over recent events in his life. In particular the assassination he had carried out in Northern England.

  He had been pleased enough with the job, having carried out his instructions to the letter. But what made his eyes narrow thoughtfully as he ate alone on the terrace, were the actions of Jacky Lee’s companion, the one he had pondered over before, the one who had pointed a gun at him, dropped into a combat stance — and not fired.

  Surely if the man had been a friend of Lee, he would have opened up. Yet he didn’t. He had a golden opportunity, but chose not to fire.

  That gave the Russian a very creepy feeling.

  If the man had had a military background, he would have fired.

  If he had been a criminal, he would have fired.

  But if the man had been a cop — he would not have fired.

  Soldiers and criminals don’t think twice about shooting people who are running away. Cops do.

  The Russian knew he was only guessing, but he felt compelled to tell someone of his misgivings.

  He finished his meal quickly, then made his way to the study in the villa where there was an e-mail facility. He logged on and started to type.

  He would hate the man to become any sort of a problem.

  The lure of two more duty-free Benson amp; Hedges Specials bought on her flight into Tenerife and a couple of miniature vodkas from the mini-bar in her room kept Danny dallying on the balcony for another half hour, watching the harbour lights and blowing smoke rings into the balmy night air. At one point she almost jumped out of her skin. There was a sudden silence, just for a fraction of a second. No music, no people, no cars, no hubbub — and in that moment she could have sworn she heard the roar of a lion. She dipped forwards in her plastic chair, ears craning. Then all the other noises clicked back into place. She sat back slowly, positive for a moment about what she’d heard. Then she shook her head and smiled, convincing herself it couldn’t be. Must have been a gust of wind.

  She took one last long drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before standing up and brushing her skirt down. Her stomach gurgled its hunger impatiently. She thought that perhaps she might have heard that rumbling rather than a lion.

  Time to move. She caught the lift down to the foyer and walked out the hotel.

  ‘ That’s her,’ Gillrow whispered to Loz. They were sitting behind a pillar, pretending to read newspapers, waiting on the off-chance of spotting her.

  Loz nodded. ‘I’ll sort it.’ He folded his newspaper and slapped it across Gillrow’s chest. ‘And I’ll enjoy it.’

  He followed Danny out into the night.

  The journey to the rendezvous point took three-quarters of an hour. Henry followed Terry out of Blackburn and over the moors to Haslingden in East Lancashire; through the towns of Rossendale — Rawtenstall, Waterfoot, Bacup and Whitworth (all areas Henry knew of old) — winding down through the narrow main roads until they hit the Greater Manchester boundary at Rochdale. Here Terry did a sharp right off the road into a steep valley known as the ‘Thrutch’, where a river ran fiercely through a narrow gorge. This was Healey Dell Nature Reserve, just inside Lancashire.

  The road twisted tightly down until it bottomed out, flattened and widened on the valley floor, then began to rise gradually again. This time, on the right, was the entrance to a small industrial estate, consisting of brick-built units once part of a larger mill.

  Terry drove in; Henry followed in the low-slung XJS, careful not to rip out the underside of the car on the uneven ground. They drew to a halt outside the shutter door of unit number four. Obviously this was one of the places where Jacky Lee — and now Gunk and Gary — stored contraband. It was heavily fortified but there was no burglar alarm on the premises. Cops turning out to false alarms could prove extremely embarrassing.

  Henry switched the Jag engine off, got out and mooched over to Terry. He stayed in the van, window down, elbow out.

  ‘ Where the hell are they?’ Terry asked.

  As if in answer, the sound of a powerful engine grew nearer and louder. A Jeep bounced on to the industrial estate, going far too quickly, scrunching to a swerving halt just four inches away from the back end of the Jag.

  ‘ Wanker,’ hissed Henry.

  Gunk Elphick alighted from the vehicle, alone, big, bright, smiling; volatile and dangerous underneath. ‘OK, guy
s,’ he called. He fumbled in his jeans pocket, producing a set of keys, then opened a side door and went into the building. A few seconds later the big shutter door ascended noisily. ‘Reverse the van in,’ Gunk shouted.

  Terry manoeuvred the Mercedes into the unit. Gunk leaned nonchalantly by the control box for the door. Once the engine had been turned off, he smacked the ‘door close’ button with the palm of his big right hand.

  Henry opened the van doors, displaying all the boxes of whisky inside. It was one of those cheap mixed brands which he quite liked to drink in quantity, usually diluted with something else he would never even have shown to a decent single malt. It was good, pub spirit.

  Gunk and Terry joined him.

  ‘ Stack ‘em, over there.’ Gunk pointed to a corner of the unit where there was space amongst other boxes of merchandise. Henry’s eyes had already roved and seen that the majority of the other gear was electrical — cheap tape-recorders and some fairly dated-looking word processors. There was also a selection of do-it-yourself equipment, including power tools and Black amp; Decker Workmates. Henry winced at the thought of DIY.

  In one corner of the unit was a good quality multi-gym setup, probably where Gunk came to work out. A series of weights were scattered about the floor like huge coins.

  It took about forty-five minutes to empty the van. Henry and Terry ended up beaded in sweat, breathless. Gunk showed no signs of strain.

  ‘ Good stuff,’ beamed Gunk, hands on hips, surveying the piled-up whisky. He smiled at Henry, whose flesh crept. Gunk’s mobile phone chirped some obscure sequence of notes. He fished it out of his back pocket and thumbed a button. ‘Yep?’

  Gary Thompson did not live very far away from the industrial unit to which the whisky had been delivered. He inhabited a large, modern apartment on the outskirts of Rochdale in a soulless building where neighbours kept themselves to themselves, ensuring he could live a life of coming and going without raising eyebrows. He lived there with his — now — thirty-year-old lady friend. They planned to marry in the near future.

  As the whisky was being delivered, Gary was in deep conversation with Nikolai Drozdov across the dining-room table. They were discussing the job which had been presented to them by Billy Crane. Both were eager to get involved. It was easy money, exciting and dangerous. Just what crime should be.

  The first phone call to interrupt them came to Drozdov’s mobile. It was a short terse message and Drozdov had no time to respond to it. The call ended abruptly.

  ‘ A warning from my friends in Russia,’ he said to Gary. ‘Check out the guy who was with Jacky Lee when he was shot. Could be a cop. Stress “could be”.’

  ‘ Frank Jagger,’ Gary said stonily.

  Then Thompson’s own mobile rang. It was Billy Crane. He did not introduce himself, just expected Thompson to recognise the voice. ‘I know where I’ve seen that guy Jagger before,’ he said quickly. ‘Twelve years ago. He was a cop. Is he still one, or what? Think about it.’ The call ended.

  Gary repeated Crane’s words to Drozdov. A horrible feeling, like rats eating away at him, gnawed in the pit of his guts.

  ‘ Once is OK,’ Drozdov began his mantra. ‘Twice is coincidence-’

  Thompson’s phone rang again, startling both men. The voice of a man Gary did not recognise said slowly, just once, ‘Frank Jagger is a cop. If you do not kill him, he will destroy you.’

  ‘ Shit! Either this is one big fucking joke, or else we’re in deep crap.’

  ‘ Three times,’ Drozdov concluded, ‘means big trouble.’

  Gary nodded. ‘We need to get out of here and go to ground,’ he said, punching a number into his mobile. ‘Gunk? Is that you?’

  ‘ Sure is,’ the big man answered.

  ‘ Are you still with Frank Jagger?’

  ‘ Sure am.’

  ‘ Well, listen fucking good. Don’t do anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid. He’s a cop. I don’t know about the other one, but Jagger definitely is. Get out of there without making him suspicious. Got it? See me down at the Crown and we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘ 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 fea
rfully. 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 amp; 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.