by Nick Oldham
Dave Seymour moaned, ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘ He’ll be here soon.’ Henry had arranged for a traffic car, motorcycle escort and a Mobile Firearms Team to pick up Drozdov from Blackpool Airport where the Russian’s private jet had landed. As far as he knew, things were running on time. The firearms team had been provided as the result of a specific request from Drozdov, via Interpol — who had informed him of his grandson’s death on behalf of Henry. Wherever he went in Russia, apparently, he was always accompanied by a protection unit. The implication was that this ‘protection unit’ consisted of armed personnel. Because Drozdov would clearly not be allowed to bring such a unit of his own thugs into the UK, Drozdov had insisted on an armed police guard because he was always in danger. Despite feeling that he was pandering to the ego of a common criminal, Henry fixed this up. Better that, he reasoned, than Drozdov’s goons turning up armed to the back teeth with Kalashnikovs and having to deal with that.
‘ DI Christie receiving?’ Henry’s PR asked him from his jacket pocket. It was Lancaster Comms calling him. He acknowledged. ‘Information received from Control Room: two minutes, repeat, two minutes. Understood?’
‘ Yeah, thanks for that.’
Two minutes and Drozdov would be here. Henry emptied the last of his tea down his throat and crushed the plastic cup in his palm, tossing it away. He went into the mortuary to check that everything was set up in the viewing room.
Nikolai’s body was laid out as tastefully as possible in the circumstances, ready to be identified, a wide white bandage wrapped skilfully around his head to hide the horrendous injuries caused by the bullets which had been pumped into it.
Henry went back outside as the police convoy turned down the driveway towards the mortuary.
The two minutes had passed very quickly — almost as quickly as the last two days.
When a murder investigation kicks off, no matter how run of the mill or extraordinary it might be, all hell breaks loose. It is the responsibility of the SIO to get hold of everything and pull it all together. There is information and intelligence overload, all of which has to be constructively managed. A policy book, recording all the decisions taken and the reason for them, has to be started. The team needs to be drawn together and led, IT systems have to be put into place, people have to be allocated jobs according to their skills. Their welfare needs to be catered for because it is true that in the first seventy-two hours, everyone is up for it, wanting to get the case solved; after that, overtime becomes a burden, families start whining about absences and enthusiasm wanes. Intelligence cells have to be formed. And a myriad other things have to be considered, not least of which is sticking to legal and procedural guidelines. All of it is down to the SIO.
When Henry went into work with Danny the morning after their first night together — in separate cars, obviously — he had no idea he would end up as SIO on one of the biggest cash robberies ever in the UK, together with a multiple murder.
He had a good idea there was a major enquiry in the offing… but not quite so gi-fucking-normous.
He knew everything that had happened the previous day, and on top of that was the discovery of the security van decorated in blood found in Staffordshire with twenty million pounds and four guards missing from it. A police pathologist inspected the interior of the van and concluded that someone had probably died inside it, or had at the very least been seriously wounded. Where this had happened had yet to be established, but Henry had a nasty feeling that Lancashire was the host.
One of the first things he did was speak to the security firm and find out what route the vehicle should have taken. Then he sent a traffic cop down to Staffs to inspect the tachograph to see what clues it could provide as to the possible location of the robbery. Even Henry, a non-traffic-orientated cop, knew that anyone with a bit of knowledge of tachographs could retrace journeys quite accurately.
That was done by 7.30 a.m., at which moment a grumpy FB walked in, not pleased at having been woken several times during the night.
Henry briefed him quickly. After that FB made the decision that, subject to the views of Staffordshire police, Lancashire would pick this up and run with it, as everything pointed to something big having gone down on their turf. If it later transpired it had happened somewhere else, then it would be handed over with alacrity.
When Henry asked FB who the SIO would be, the older man fixed him with one of his famous stares, designed to ensure the recipient’s anus twitched.
‘ You are that man,’ FB said. ‘It would be crackers to bring anyone else in, even though it’s still early doors. You have all the information, the holistic view, the experience and above all’ — here FB smiled thinly — ‘I trust you to get results.’
‘ I should’ve stayed off sick.’
‘ Don’t be a fucking Nancy — get on with it.’
Things began to move when he walked — still shell-shocked — back into the Incident Room in the LEC building to tell Danny the news. Before he could speak she waved a message pad under his nose, just received from the police in Morecambe.
Henry read it, took it in, murmuring the words out loud: ‘“Four bodies found apparently shot to death in a warehouse on the White Lund Industrial Estate. Two identified (not formally) from documents found on them. One: Gary Thompson. Two: Graham “Gunk” Elphick.”’ Henry raised his head and swallowed. ‘Gunk,’ he repeated, stunned by the news. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘ Yeah,’ Danny said.
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘We need to have a look at this now,’ he decided, whilst experiencing a very unusual feeling down in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Gunk’s name and the possibility he might now be dead. He was slightly ashamed to discover the feeling was one of high elation.
They were at the scene within the hour.
Even from first glance, Henry worked out that a tremendous gun battle had taken place. The question was — had anybody survived and left the scene? And additionally, was this slaughter connected with the theft of twenty million pounds?
‘ If it isn’t,’ Henry mused to no one in particular, ‘then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’
He was able to identify the bodies of the other two dead people immediately.
Nikolai Drozdov and Don Smith. But no Billy Crane, Henry thought.
He paused over Gunk’s body, wondering whether to kick it.
Even as they were inspecting that blood-splattered scene of carnage, having great fun working out what had gone on, testing out theories, angles and the like, another message came from the police at Carnforth, a small town to the north of Lancaster. A stolen HGV had been discovered that morning on a lorry park on the A6, near to Junction 34 of the M6. The police officer who attended the report soon found the lorry was empty — with the exception of four dead bodies on the trailer, all shot, and all dressed in the uniform of security guards.
The convoy came slowly down the gravel driveway. Two motorcyclists were leading, followed by a plain car, a liveried traffic car and another plain car bringing up the rear. The plain cars were carrying the firearms team — eight officers in total — and the traffic car, driven by a PC accompanied by a detective from the Murder Squad, was carrying the dignitary. On this occasion, a Russian gangster.
At the last moment, the motorcyclists peeled away and zoomed back up the drive to seal the entrance. The remaining cars stopped in the mortuary car park.
The firearms team poured out of their cars, each officer taking a pre-determined point to protect the traffic car, MP5s at the ready, their eyes roving surrounding buildings and open spaces for possible threats. Henry had briefed them first thing that morning and was empathetic to their feelings. Despite body and head protection, they were very vulnerable indeed. Drozdov was the class of target that if anyone seriously wanted to take him out, a bunch of armed cops, however well-trained, would not be able to stop them.
Henry now felt vulnerable. He wore no protection — but, he thought wryly, if someone did take a
pot shot, there was no way he would be throwing himself into the line of fire.
One of the rear doors of the traffic car opened and a huge bear of a man with a beard got out.’ He was much younger than Henry had anticipated, which was puzzling. Henry offered his hand in greeting, but the man blanked him out, went to the opposite door and opened it.
The bear gently assisted out a small, frail old man and set him on a pair of very unsteady feet; he held him there and reached into the car for a walking frame which he unfolded and placed in front of the old man.
This, Henry realised, was Alexandr Drozdov, grandfather of Nikolai. He could not have been over five-two tall, was incredibly wizened, his skin pure white, but not albino; he was hunched over with a pronounced curvature of the spine. He looked a hundred years old. Henry gawped stupidly at him, unable to imagine this pensioner as a ruthless gangland warlord with a worldwide business empire. He did not look capable of taking a deep breath. Looked like a good meal would kill him. Not for the first time, Henry’s stereotypical expectations of what a gangster should look like were dashed.
Henry held out his hand again.
The old man’s eyes flickered up and that gave the game away. Henry firmly believed the eyes were the window to the soul, and Drozdov’s pair of steel blue ones made Henry freeze inside. His bony, almost transparent hand, which Henry could easily have crushed, was in direct contrast to the fire which burned behind the eyes.
‘ Mr Drozdov,’ Henry said slowly, ‘I’m-’
‘ I know who you are,’ Drozdov cut in sharply, speaking perfect, accentless English. His voice was forceful and authoritative, belying — again — his appearance, which was that of a doddering old man. ‘Detective Inspector Henry James Christie. You are the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation into the death of my grandson.’ He watched Henry’s reaction and smiled. ‘I make it my business to know such things. Now let us proceed. Serov,’ he said to his huge companion, ‘stay with us.’
‘ Yes, that is the body of my grandson, Nikolai Drozdov,’ the old man said. Henry saw him intake breath sharply and steady himself on his walking frame. Then Drozdov shuffled out of the identification room, backed by the huge bear-man. Henry drew a white linen sheet over Nikolai’s face and stepped out after Drozdov.
‘ I must speak to you,’ he insisted.
‘ Why? What can you do for me that I cannot do for myself?’ he responded, not pausing on his unsteady route back to the traffic car.
‘ Mr Drozdov,’ Henry said sternly, ‘I am investigating the murder of your grandson as well as that of seven other people. You must talk to me. If nothing else I need to inform you of the legal procedures and give you details of when you can expect to be allowed to take Nickolai’s body back to Russia.’
‘ Allowed?’ Drozdov snorted, stopping in his tracks, turning slowly, but angrily on Henry. ‘Allowed? My grandson will accompany me back to Russia now.’
‘ No, he won’t. This is England and you will abide by our rules, regulations and laws. You do not call the shots here like you do on the streets of Moscow. Nikolai’s body will remain in this country until released by the coroner — and believe me, I have a great deal of influence in that decision.’
‘ Are you trying to intimidate me?’ Drozdov rallied.
‘ Merely stating facts.’
Astonishingly, the old man wilted like a daffodil, hanging his head. Serov reached out, ready to catch him if he fell. Then Drozdov pulled himself together.
‘ Nikolai was my only living blood relative.’ A tear formed in the old man’s eye. Henry’s heart went out to him fleetingly, but he spoke to him in the same, measured tones he had used before.
‘ In that case you will be eager to take him home at the earliest opportunity.’
‘ You are a hard man, Detective Christie.’
‘ No, you’re wrong there, but I have a job to do and I’ll do it to the best of my ability.’
Drozdov nodded in graceful acquiescence. ‘In that case, we shall talk.’
Old he might have been, but very cautious he remained — which was probably why he had lived to such a grand old age, Henry surmised. Drozdov refused to talk whilst sitting in the back of the traffic car, which was Henry’s suggestion. Nor did he wish to go to Lancaster police station, where protecting him would have been easier. Instead he said he would be willing to sit in the back of one of the firearms team’s cars because it was less likely to have been bugged — and only then if Henry agreed to be searched by Drozdov’s travelling companion. Henry, who was sick of being searched for wires, said OK reluctantly.
After a quick but thorough pat-down, Serov grunted some thing which must have meant Henry was clean.
Serov then assisted Drozdov into the car and after quickly briefing the firearms team to be patient, Henry got in beside him.
‘ I’ll lay my cards on the table,’ Henry opened. ‘As you know, I am in charge of a multiple murder investigation, coupled with a robbery, and one of the victims is your grandson. And this is how I shall view Nikolai — as someone’s grandson. It is a terrible tragedy and no one, from whatever walk of life, should lose a grandson in such a manner. To me, murder is the most serious crime there is and I will do everything possible to bring the offenders to justice. That’s my solemn promise to you.’
This had been the seventh time of saying something similar in the last forty-eight hours. As SIO, Henry thought it only right and proper for him to visit the immediate families of all the victims, those of the security guards, and those of Thompson and Elphick, and to make this promise to them. When he spoke to Elphick’s father, though, he had not really meant the words, because he was glad the bastard was dead.
Drozdov said, ‘Thank you for that.’
‘ However…’ Henry went on.
‘ Ahh.’ The old man raised his head knowingly. ‘Here comes the “but”’
‘ No, no buts. What I want to say is this. I know full well who you are and what you are, Mr Drozdov. What I want to do is make a plea. I know that you and your organisation are probably capable of tracking down and killing the person you think is responsible for Nikolai’s death. I beg you not to do that. If you do know who is responsible, please feed that information to me and let the legal process take its course. Let me convict the offender. Let them suffer a life in prison. Killing is too good for such a person, too easy.. ’ Henry’s words drifted away.
‘ An interesting little speech,’ Drozdov said with a trace of pity. ‘You make assumptions about me which could be upsetting. But, in the confines of this car, I will admit you are correct. It is the plan for my “organisation”, as you call it, to hunt down and destroy Nikolai’s murderer. You see, in Russia, we believe blood for blood. Whoever killed my grandson will die for it. I have already lost my son in similar circumstances. I allowed the Russian police to use the due process of law on that occasion and the killer was acquitted on a technicality — which told me the friends of the killer paid the judge more than I.’ Drozdov pushed his thick glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘That judge judges no more. So my faith in the law, if I had any to begin with, was not justified and the man who killed my son met a very messy end.’
‘ This is British justice, not Russian justice,’ Henry argued, jolted by hearing such revelations — two admissions of murder in one breath — and feeling powerless to do anything about it.
‘ Then there is an even greater likelihood of failure. If the corrupt Russian system did not convict my son’s killer, how can I hope that a fair and just system will be any different?’
‘ I will ensure it.’
‘ How? Shall I bribe you?’ chuckled Drozdov.
‘ That won’t be necessary,’ Henry said coldly. ‘I will ensure it by means of my skills as a detective and the skills of my team. Your grandson’s killer will be tried and convicted. I guarantee it.’
‘ I’m afraid your guarantee is worthless.’
‘ So you will not do as I ask?’
; Drozdov leaned back and closed his eyes. Henry thought he had fallen asleep, but then he said, ‘No, but I will offer you a compromise of sorts. If you arrest the man who killed Nikolai before I get to him, I will allow British justice to run its course. However, if there is an acquittal, he will die; if he is convicted and sent to prison, he will be allowed to serve the term imposed by the court. On his release, he will die, even though by that time I will be dead myself. At ninety-one there are not many years left for anyone, but his death will be my legacy for Nikolai.’
‘ That is not very helpful. You are saying that whatever happens, he is a dead man.’
‘ Yes, that is all I can offer. I am an old man in grief. I want revenge. It is as simple as that.’ He touched Henry’s knee. ‘You are a good man, Henry Christie, but I live in a different world with different values and you should understand that.’
Henry shook his head despondently. It had been worth a try, to get Drozdov on his side, but he had half-expected the response and he wasn’t unduly surprised. The sooner he got back to the MIR the better. He was involved in a race to catch the killer now. He had to make an arrest before Drozdov’s henchmen struck first, and therefore there was not much time to play with. The slow-moving police machine needed a huge kick up the rear.
‘ What information can you give me?’ Henry asked. ‘What, for example, was Nikolai doing in this country, associating with known criminals?’
‘ Furthering business interests is how I would summarise it.’