by Nick Oldham
Danny’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the second name, Smith. She had heard it recently, but could not say where.
‘ The third guy got away. I heard it was Malcolm Fitch. He did a runner from his arresting officer, who happened to be Gillrow.’
Danny screwed her nose up. ‘I didn’t know that, but I didn’t really know very much about the job anyway. RCS didn’t tell anyone. I just remember getting a prisoner taken off me — the one who blew up the police cars in Northgate.’
‘ I only know more about it because I was on that job as an AFO and I knew a few of the RCS guys because I’d been a detective. I was only back in uniform to get myself promoted to Sergeant. The rumour was that Fitch was Gillrow’s snout and that he gave Gillrow the gen about the burglary and then participated in it on the understanding, firstly he got paid and secondly he managed’ — here Henry tweaked the first and second fingers of both hands to accentuate the word ‘managed’ — ‘to escape at some stage, which he did. Gillrow let him do a runner on the way back to the nick. Smith got locked up and so did Crane — after he’d shot Terry and Terry had winged him… and the money was never recovered.’ Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Could have been a fourth man, maybe. Just rumour, though, I hasten to add.’
‘ Hang on, hang on,’ Danny said, holding up her hands, palms out. ‘Let me get this straight. Malcolm Fitch was an RCS informant and was handled by Barney Gillrow?’
‘ Yes.’ Henry sighed. His energy seemed to be dissipating. ‘Fitch was one of the best sources the RCS ever had in the early 1980s. He was well in touch with a number of individual crims and some major crime gangs.’
‘ That’s odd, then,’ Danny observed slowly.
Henry waited for her to continue.
‘ I’ve recently spoken to Barney Gillrow, now retired, living the life of Riley in Tenerife. He told me he hardly even recalls Malcolm Fitch.’
‘ Unless he’s suffering memory loss, he’s not telling the truth.’
Danny scratched her head. She told Henry about her visit to Gillrow, subsequently being warned off and the manner in which it was done.
‘ Then the Tenerife link needs pursuing.’ He sat back. ‘As does the link with Billy Crane and Don Smith. Crane and Smith go back a long way. They were partners in crime, served time together; real hard cases. Guys like them bear grudges for a long time. If they found out, say, that Fitch had ratted on them to the RCS, they wouldn’t be averse to putting a bullet or two in his head, even now, years later. It could be a revenge killing, tied in with drug-related murders.’ Henry shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe Crane and Smith deal drugs now, too.’
‘ Shit!’ Danny rocked forwards and pointed excitedly at Henry. ‘I know where I’ve heard that name — Don Smith. Henry, will you hang fire here for a few minutes while I make a phone call?’
‘ Nothing better to do.’
‘ You know something? I love you.’ Danny stood up, leaned over and pecked his cheek. ‘Where have you been all my life?’ She rushed out of the canteen to find a phone.
Henry touched his face where her lips had brushed him. He could feel the heat. His fingertips stayed over the spot for a long time.
The very last pick-up of the day was from a bank in Carlisle at 1.30 p.m. Slightly behind schedule, but nothing to be concerned about. Within minutes of leaving the bank they were on the M6 heading south. Colin Hodge was at the wheel of the security van. His stomach was still jittery, which was fine. It fitted in nicely with the plans. He’d already had to make one urgent, unscheduled stop and race to the toilet before shitting himself. It had been a stop where nothing untoward had happened, so a second stop would not raise eyebrows from his mates.
And that second stop would be on the southbound motorway service area near Lancaster, formerly — and more widely — known as Forton Services. It was here that Hodge would be given specific instructions to follow before continuing southwards. The robbery, he had been told by Smith, would actually take place at the gates of the security waste disposal company in Stafford, but the stop at Lancaster was necessary in order to make contact and confirm everything was going to plan.
Hodge tried to relax as he drove. He engaged in the inane banter of his colleagues and kept his mind focused on not betraying anything to them.
But try as he might, he could not keep his mind off the passport and tickets which Don Smith was holding for him which would fly him firstly to Amsterdam, then on to Rome and from there, via the Middle East, to Australia, where, twenty-five million pounds richer, he would live a life of splendour and indulgence.
Chapter Sixteen
Each year one of the main political parties comes to Blackpool to hold its annual conference, usually at the beginning of October. The policing operation which services these conferences is phenomenal, costing millions of pounds. The public only see the visible side of the operation when the conferences are up and running, when normal day-to-day life in the resort is massively disrupted. That part is only a fraction of a huge enterprise which commences many months earlier, when much repetitive, mind-blowing legwork is done.
Since the bombing of the Tory Party hotel in Brighton in 1984, the security of delegates, whether in government or otherwise, is at the top of the policing agenda. One of the ways in which this is achieved is by vetting. This means doing background checks on hundreds of people including staff employed at the Winter Gardens — which is the actual venue of the conferences — and of the employees at the main hotels where delegates stay during conference week.
It is tedious work, often producing nothing remotely exciting, but it has to be done.
At the hotels it is not only the staff who are checked out. Every guest registered in the preceding year is also checked. The rationale behind this is simple. As bomb-making technology improves, devices which can be planted months, even years, before they are due to explode can be placed in rooms to detonate during conference week, at night, when the delegates are most likely to be in their rooms.
Each guest, unless known, is a potential terrorist and needs to be checked out and vetted.
This is something that Billy Crane and Don Smith had not taken into account when the former booked into the Imperial Hotel under an assumed name and paid cash for his stay; and the latter paid for a meal with his own Barclaycard.
Every name is checked out and any which are suspect will soon start to flash red in the system.
DC Rik Dean, seconded for a six-month period to the vetting team, was sitting in a very cramped office in Blackpool Central police station, checking and cross-checking paperwork, when the phone rang next to him. He picked it up. ‘Conference Planning, Vetting Team, Rik Dean, can I help you?’ he answered blandly.
‘ Rik, it’s me — Danny Furness.’
Rik’s stomach did a hop, skip and a twirl. The back of his neck reddened. He swallowed. ‘Hello, Danny,’ he whispered timidly, mouth dry, vividly remembering leaving her high, dry, gasping and unsatisfied on her kitchen floor simply because he’d been spooked by the thought of screwing in the same location as a suicide.
Danny tried to sound bright and unconcerned. ‘How are you?’
‘ All right, I suppose.’
‘ About the other night, Rik. Forget it. No hard feelings, not a problem.’
‘ Yeah, sure, whatever.’ God, he almost choked when he thought about the opportunity missed. It had been there on a plate. ‘Maybe some other time?’ he ventured hopefully.
‘ I don’t think so,’ she said, still bright, failing to add, You missed your chance, tosspot. ‘I was a bit out of my head and it probably wouldn’t have been the right thing for us anyway, don’t you think?’
‘ Yeah, yeah,’ he said sonorously.
‘ Rik, what I’m phoning about is — when we were talking the other night in the club, you mentioned you were on the vetting team and that something interesting had been thrown up from the Imperial Hotel. Something about a guy… now correct me if I’m wrong, Rik, because I was totally pissed when you
were telling me this and most of it went over my head… something about a guy who seems to have given false details when he was staying at the hotel, who stayed for one night, paid cash, and had dinner with another guy who visited him. This second guy — again correct me if I’m wrong — was called Don Smith. He used a credit card in that name. Am I right?’
‘ Yes, you are. I don’t even remember telling you.’
‘ Shows how bladdered you were, too. Tell me about it.’
‘ This fella books into the hotel into one of the best suites. Has dinner with this Don Smith character and leaves the morning after. We run all the normal checks and it transpires the address he gave does not exist — some street in Blackburn that was demolished years ago.’
‘ What’ve you done about it?’
‘ Tried to get hold of Don Smith, but we haven’t been able to do so yet. His credit-card address relates to an office in Blackpool which just seems to be a place where post gets sent.’
‘ Have you any idea who the other guy is?’
‘ Not yet. The one called Smith is a local Lancashire villain from Blackburn. We got his details from the credit-card company, but haven’t been able to pin him down at this address yet. It’s a mystery, but we’re not too concerned about it. There doesn’t seem to be a terrorist link, which is what we’re really concerned about, obviously.’
‘ Has the suite been used since? The one Mr Unknown used?’
‘ I imagine so. You thinking about fingerprints?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ It’ll have been cleaned if nothing else, so I doubt whether it would be worth dusting. What’s all this about, Danny?’
‘ Not sure yet. Possibly a connection with the triple murder.’
‘ Oh, right,’ Rik said, interested.
Danny shuffled her thoughts. ‘What I’m going to do is this, Rik — and bear with me please, because I’m just following a hunch here. I’m going to get a motorcyclist to pick up a mugshot of a guy from here at Headquarters and I’ll ask him to drop it off with you.’ She was already thinking ahead to losing a case because of lax procedure, so she wanted this done correctly. ‘You go to the CID office and get a book of photographs similar to the one I’ve sent and slot it in. Then go over to the hotel and ask the waiters to have a look through the book. See if they pick out the guy. Do it properly. Record it all on the right forms and don’t prompt — that’s important. In the meantime I’m going to get Scenes of Crime to go over that suite. You never know. Any questions?’
‘ No, but I love it when you’re authoritative.’
‘ Rik, honey… I could’ve been all yours, but you blew it.’
Danny hung up and rubbed her hands. All she needed to do now was root out a photo of Billy Crane which even though it would be a dozen years old would have to do. Beggars could not be choosers.
She dashed back to see Henry.
Colin Hodge checked the time. It was 2.30 p.m. now and he was approaching the North Lancaster exit of the M6, about six miles away from the service area. He had been instructed to try to arrive at the services about 2.45 p.m., to fit in with the ‘bigger picture’, whatever that meant. Once at the services, he had been told to go to the gents’ toilets where Smith would be waiting; the latter would brief him about the next stage of events. Hodge would then continue his journey south — or so he believed.
Hodge was keeping the security van at a constant 55 mph, but he relaxed his right foot ever so slightly to reduce the speed by a couple of sly notches without alerting his companions. He did not want to be too early. He wanted everything to work perfectly on this, the first day of the rest of his life.
The van drove past Junction 34 and the road began to rise. On the right was the fencing which surrounded Lancaster Farms, the Young Offenders’ Institute. Beyond that was the monstrosity that was Lancaster Moor Hospital. Then there was the wonderful monument in Williamson Park which rose up like a mini Taj Mahal.
Hodge groaned, flinched and leaned forwards, wrapping an arm around his stomach.
‘ Guts again?’ he was asked.
‘ Yeah,’ he rasped, feigning pain. ‘I feel another shit coming on — and soon.’
‘ There’s some services not far off. Pull in there.’
‘ Either that or I’m going to have to drop my keks on the hard shoulder.’
Five miles south, they were waiting for him.
Each man was growing more and more tense and nervous. Chewing gum rapidly. No talking. Waiting. Shallow breathing. Nostrils flaring. Eyes flickering across the service area, checking for unwanted visitors. Feet tapping. Fingers flexing. Sweat dribbling.
Hawker and Price were in the cab of the Leyland Sherpa which was squeezed between two very long, high-sided heavy goods vehicles parked on the outer rim of the HGV parking area. The vehicle on their right was a 1993 Leyland-DAF Curtainside, over 55 feet in length; on the other side was an ERF Curtainside of similar proportions. Both dwarfed the Sherpa between them, like two big brothers protecting the baby. They were stolen vehicles, on false plates, and had been positioned and left there earlier on the instructions of Don Smith.
Billy Crane was sitting in the cab of the ERF, constantly looking round, glancing in the big side mirrors, mouth dry, palms wet inside the disposable gloves he was wearing.
Smith and Gunk Elphick were in one of the Audi sports cars, parked in such a position that they could see every vehicle coming off the motorway on to the service area. They did not speak to each other.
Drozdov and Thompson were in the other Audi, parked close by to the HGVs.
Crane checked his watch. ‘Any sign yet?’ he asked shortly over the radio.
‘ Nothing yet,’ Smith responded.
Crane sat back, tried to relax. A tight smile came to his lips. He was aware that the police in Lancashire were going to be somewhat diverted over the next few minutes.
‘ You see, you’re fantastic,’ Danny said brightly. She and Henry were walking by the rugby pitch outside the Headquarters building, back to their cars. The Force helicopter was still on the grass, unattended, looking slightly lost and forlorn with its drooping rotor-blades.
Danny glanced sideways at Henry. He seemed to have drifted away again, back to that distant world in which he seemed to be spending his time. She hadn’t yet broached the subject of why he had really been visiting the Occupational Health Unit.
‘ Just a few minutes with you and there’s already two extra names in the hat. If you are interested,’ she hesitated here slightly, ‘Fanshaw-Bayley is willing for you to join the Murder Squad.’
They had reached the tennis courts; Danny’s car was parked a few yards down the track next to them. Henry turned to her.
‘ How do you know that?’ He stopped walking.
‘ Because I already suggested it to him.’
Henry’s jawline hardened. A glaze of anger crossed his face. ‘Oh? And did you check with me before you started meddling with my career?’
Danny’s mouth popped open. Nothing came out of it.
‘ I think it might have been prudent, don’t you?’ he said with hostility.
She closed her mouth. It became a tight, thin line. Her eyes criss-crossed his face. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We need someone like you on the investigation.’
‘ You thought wrong. In future leave well alone, you interfering cow!’
‘ I bloody will.’ She pushed past him furiously, strode the few paces to her car, halted abruptly and spun round, shaking her head. ‘You’ve gone really odd, Henry. I don’t know what’s got into you.’
‘ No,’ he said, ‘you don’t know, do you?’
‘ Fuck you,’ she rasped and continued to her car, fumbling for her keys, tears having formed in her eyes.
‘ Your pitiful security has been breached,’ the husky voice on the telephone informed the switchboard operator at Headquarters Control Room. ‘There is a bomb in your building and it will explode within fifteen minutes. This is not a hoax call.’
Speechless for the briefest of moments, the telephonist said, ‘Can you be more specific, please?’
‘ Sure — you’ve got a bomb under your arse, bitch.’ Click. Phone dead.
The woman swivelled in her chair and called urgently across to the Duty Inspector. He went a whiter shade of pale at the news.
This was one of those ‘Do we, don’t we?’ dilemmas. It played itself out in his mind only momentarily. Although he was certain the security procedures of getting into the Control Room building were tight, he equally knew that no security system was perfect. Anyone determined enough could breach any system — and even if there was the faintest possibility of losing lives, there could only be one course of action.
‘ Right — let’s get out of here,’ he announced smartly, acutely mindful that the whole network of communication across the county would be severely compromised. He prayed nothing big was about to happen.
Two hundred and fifty yards away from the Control Room, on the other side of the rugby pitch by the tennis courts, Danny Furness slammed the door of her car and sat there shaking, about to erupt in a torrent of tears.
Henry sagged against the outer fence of the tennis courts, curling his fingers tightly around the wire, his head bowed between his arms as he endeavoured to get a grip on himself, mentally thrashing himself for having spoken to Danny like that. He ground his teeth and lifted his chin to look across at Headquarters.
His vision was blurred with tears of self-pity, shame, anger, fear
… a bitter brew of all these things, bubbling and boiling from within like he was being eaten away by acid. He saw a lone figure cross the rugby pitch and trot confidently towards the helicopter. It meant nothing to him at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, in turmoil, in disarray.
Danny’s car started up. She put it in gear.