Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  Keeps sat down and opened a folder. He looked at Andrea, who gave him the nod.

  ‘Frank Jagger, fence, handler, petty thief, fraudster, but mainly a handler,’ he began. ‘Last used 2001 in the case of Jacky Lee.’ He looked pointedly at Henry, who recalled Lee very well, and his sudden, violent demise at the hands of a Russian hit man. ‘Since then he’s been lying dormant, in as much as you haven’t used him, but I’ve been keeping his life going …’

  Henry waited, breath baited, wondering just what the hell he’d been up to in the intervening years.

  Henry was utterly astounded by the detailed work the Keeper had been doing, giving a ghost a life, especially when he was doing the same thing for all the other U/C operatives. Many of those legends would be up and running, not just lying fallow.

  The list was endless: passports, driving licences (with endorsements) bank accounts, tax demands, supermarket bills, parking tickets, library cards; letters from companies chasing debts, mobile phone records and all sort of other detritus people collect throughout their lifetimes. The completely amazing thing was that everything was authentic because it was all produced in collusion and cooperation with businesses and other organizations involved at the very highest level.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Henry said.

  The Keeper gave a modest nod of acknowledgement and tried to mask his pleasure. ‘I try.’

  After further discussion, during which the Keeper gave Henry an overview of how he saw Frank Jagger’s life having panned out over the last six years, he shook hands with Henry and Andrea, wished them luck, and left them to it. He’d given them the background, the life story, now it was down to them to take it from there.

  Henry picked through the paperwork, wondering how Jagger would have continued his life after his involvement with Jacky Lee, the Manchester gangster, and the subsequent mess following his demise, which included a serious assault on Henry, one which he had buried deep in his mind and which still caused him to squirm when it surfaced.

  ‘Thoughts?’ Andrea Makin asked.

  Henry’s brow creased. ‘Yeah,’ he said at length. ‘This guy would have laid very low … he’s no hard man and he would’ve seen it in his best interests to quit the scene, keep his head down …’ he ruminated. ‘He’s not particularly good with money, as we can see from the debt chasers … so he owes money to legitimate people and there would be every chance of him owing to loan sharks, drug dealers … whoever.’

  Andrea watched him, thinking.

  Henry glanced across at her and his mind jumped back to the time when he had first met her. He could so easily have become involved – except that he’d been involved with someone else, an illicit relationship that had turned sour. Andrea caught his eye and he was certain she knew what he was thinking. He refocused his mind on the problem at hand.

  ‘I think Frank Jagger could well be in hock to another crim … I think he could’ve cadged a loan off someone with the intention of pulling off another deal, skimming his profit and repaying the loan with interest … only, for some reason it’s all gone tits up, he’s left high and dry with a huge debt and a mountain of goods which he can’t shift and which would be of interest to someone like Ryan Ingram.’

  ‘Porn, in other words?’ suggested Andrea.

  ‘Of the worst kind – hardcore porn. Can you get hold of some if necessary?’

  ‘Some? The Met has a shit load of the stuff piled up in warehouses all over London, mountains of it.’

  ‘OK, then that’s the premise … now we need to start pulling the stories and characters together … I have an idea on that score … but I’m still not one hundred per cent sure how Jagger and Ingram get together.’

  They looked at each other, their minds ticking over, then Andrea said, ‘I have a plan.’

  By the time they had finished – the scheming of mice and men – it was early evening. Henry was buzzing with delight and eagerness. They left the now almost deserted HQ building and strolled on to the car park.

  ‘It’s good to be working with you again, Henry,’ Andrea said.

  ‘And you, boss,’ he conceded.

  They walked across to her car, an S Type Jaguar, where they paused briefly. ‘I’ll start to fix up Ingram’s arrest with GMP – somehow,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  He looked at her sleek car, then her sleek body.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up for this, Henry?’ she asked with concern. ‘I have to tell you that the report from the psychologist was quite detailed, no stone unturned. You’ve been through a lot recently … I mean, it probably wouldn’t be seemly for you to break down in tears in front of Ingram and blab it all to him.’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ Henry assured her. ‘And the bottom line is that I love it, absolutely love it … which is why I’m keen to do this and why it hurt so much to be booted from being a detective.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m convinced.’

  He stepped back a foot. ‘I take it you’ve been assessing me as well?’

  ‘Something like that … y’see, I want Ryan Ingram and this may be one of the best opportunities we have to nail the perverted bastard and I don’t want to blow it—’

  ‘By having a weak link … i.e., me?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said stonily, ‘so, as much as I like you, and it is good working with you, I do want to do a proper job.’

  He watched her drive out of HQ. She was staying at a hotel somewhere near Bolton. He turned and ambled happily towards his car, his fairly recently acquired Rover 75, which in certain lights and wearing dark glasses, could have been mistaken for a Jaguar. Dream on, he thought.

  Firing up the engine he felt light-headed and happy, though his thoughts clouded slightly when he wondered how he was going to deal with Kate again. He planned to tell her he’d seen the force shrink today and been given the mental all-clear, even though it was actually two days since he’d seen the doctor. He didn’t want to reveal that the operation was already under way – that would have to wait for another day or two.

  So whilst he wasn’t actually telling Kate lies, he was rearranging the truth.

  Maybe he could use this as a bit of practice ahead of going undercover, even though he knew that when he went under, his whole life would be a complete lie.

  He drove through the HQ exit barriers, turned on to the A59, then headed in the direction of Preston, a journey he had taken many times, eventually cutting across on to the A583, which would take him to Blackpool. He could have done the journey on autopilot and in a way that’s what he was doing that evening whilst listening to his thoughts and his CD player which had been mysteriously loaded with a disc by an artist called Mika who screamed tunefully at him. Kate would be the culprit. He would have to have strong words with her: don’t mess with my Rolling Stones discs.

  The evening was getting darker, rain had started to fall and he failed to notice the car that had been following him at a discreet distance since he’d left headquarters.

  Once on the A583 he travelled along the dual carriageway up to the lights at Three Nooks, stopping as they were on red with just one vehicle behind him. He glanced in his rear-view mirror, but did not even register it, other than to note there was a car behind. Moving through the lights, the car stayed behind, matching his acceleration up to the 50 mph speed limit on that stretch of road.

  The next set of lights was on green. He sailed through, considering pulling in at a petrol station before getting home and buying Kate some flowers and chocs as sweeteners for his news. The car was still behind him, but then it moved out into the right-hand lane and came alongside Henry’s Rover. He didn’t even glance at it. It was only when the car had remained parallel with him for a few hundred metres did he even acknowledge its presence, eye it once and think, Just get fucking past, will you?

  He didn’t look at the driver, but noted that the car was a Ford Mondeo, a similar colour to the one he’d previously owned and traded in for the Rover. He could not tell the exact co
lour in the fading light. He put his foot down slightly, aware that not far ahead was a dreaded speed camera on his side of the road. But he wanted to leave the Mondeo behind now because it was irritating him.

  As he nosed forwards, so did the Mondeo, staying with him exactly.

  Suddenly, it surged ahead.

  A feeling of relief went through him, which evaporated instantly when the Mondeo slotted right in front of him and anchored on.

  Henry had to slam the brakes on to avoid tail-ending it. He swerved towards the kerb. ‘Shit!’ he gasped, gripping the wheel.

  Then the Mondeo accelerated away at high speed.

  Henry cursed. What was the arsehole playing at? He caught his breath, considered a pursuit, then thought better of it. To get involved in a road rage incident was something he could do without. He decided it was just someone acting the toss-bag and let it go, reaching the next set of lights at Kirkham without incident or further sight of the Mondeo. A few moments later he was on the long straight stretch of dual carriageway which would take him up to Blackpool.

  Fifty was the limit on this section of road, which had seen its fair share of fatalities.

  A mirror check revealed a car approaching from behind, main beam on. With a pissed-off utterance, Henry flicked the lever on his interior mirror to cut out the glare. What was it with people tonight? he thought crossly.

  The car sped right up his rear end, tailgating, only feet away from his chuff-box, the driver now flashing his lights angrily.

  Henry knocked his mirror back into place and squinted at the reflection. He maintained his speed and position, refusing to be intimidated. Casually, he raised the middle finger of his left hand.

  The car dropped back, lights lowered.

  Henry recognized the outline of the car as a Mondeo. One person on board, probably a man. Same one as before, he guessed and thought, ‘Whatever,’ aloud, continuing to drive, coming on to another long straight stretch of dual carriageway. At this point the Mondeo swerved into the outside lane, moved forward and hung a few feet from the rear of Henry’s offside wing.

  Henry kept a cautious eye on the car through his wing mirror.

  Then it came alongside, and they were like two racing cars on a Scalextric track, dead level, nose with nose, tail with tail, driver with driver.

  Now seriously worried, Henry glanced sideways at the person who had become his tormentor – and what he saw sent a shock wave through him. The interior light was on in the car and he was able to see the driver clearly – as intended.

  He was wearing a balaclava-type mask, with two eyeholes and a jagged mouth slit. The person was shouting something at Henry, who could see the mouth working obscenely behind the hole. Suddenly the person yanked his steering wheel down to the left, a jerk of a movement that Henry saw and reacted to instantly – but not quickly enough to avoid a collision.

  He slammed the brakes on, but the two cars smashed into each other, edge to edge, with a horrendous scraping of metal and a sickening snap as Henry’s wing mirror snapped off. Henry swerved into the roadside and the Mondeo tore away towards Blackpool. The driver threw a piece of paper out of his window as he disappeared down the road.

  Henry sat behind his wheel, gasping. Someone had tried to ram him off the road. The same driver who had a few minutes earlier braked hard in front of him for no apparent reason.

  Henry knew he hadn’t done anything wrong in a motoring sense. He hadn’t cut anyone up, or done anything stupid to make him a target for road rage. But the difference between road rage and this incident was that the former is usually a spur of the moment reaction to something, whilst what had happened to Henry was far more sinister … and was proved by two things.

  Firstly, by the car involved. A blue Ford Mondeo, exactly the same colour as the one he had previously owned. And Henry knew this for sure now, despite the darkness, because he had managed to see and note its registered number.

  It was his old car.

  Someone driving his old car had rammed him off the road.

  Coincidence? Henry did not think so.

  Henry got carefully out of his car. This was a fast stretch of road and though not busy at this time of night he still had to take care as he ran through the rain to retrieve the piece of paper thrown from the Mondeo. He managed to get it without being flattened, returned to his car and sat there with the hazards flashing whilst he carefully unfolded the paper.

  It was A4 size, bearing a full-face photograph of himself.

  And pasted over it was a gun sight consisting of concentric circles, the centre of the sight, the cross hairs, right above his forehead.

  It was as though he was looking down the sights of a sniper rifle aimed at himself, ready to pull the trigger.

  Henry’s mind jarred back to the present.

  It was part-way through the third bottle of wine that did it for Henry, as Andrea Makin poured out two large glasses from it with that pleasant glug-glugging noise as the wine cascaded out.

  He had explained in detail, during the first bottle, the minutiae of how the first meeting had gone with Ryan Ingram; during the second, conversation had become more relaxed, gravitating from work to more personal matters. Andrea learned a lot about Henry and vice versa. The third bottle led to less conversation, with some quite lengthy gaps and meaningful eye contact, then to a meeting of bodies as the table was pushed away from between them, the tearing off of clothing and Henry pushing Andrea on to the bed and climbing hurriedly between her legs … and then, unfortunately for both of them, erectile dysfunction and his subsequent humiliation.

  Five

  Henry awoke alone, feeling quite chilled in the room over the Manchester city centre pub. His head throbbed as a result of a combination of the wine intake, weeks of excess, tiredness and the stress he had been under thus far – but he knew he would in for much more pressure if Ingram took the bait.

  He dozed awhile in the soft-mattressed, King-size bed whilst a series of emotions vied for attention inside him.

  Part of him was glad he had not slept with Andrea Makin. It would have been another failure in his relationship with Kate, but the fact remained that he had wanted to have sex with her; another part of him was trying to deal with the fact that even though he had wanted sex, he hadn’t been able to get a sustainable erection.

  That had been so embarrassing.

  As he’d clambered gamely over Andrea’s more than willing flesh and her hands slid all over his body, ultimately finding their way to his penis only to discover not very much, their wild, breathless antics had ceased virtually immediately as she held him and looked into his eyes with disappointment.

  He had looked down and said, ‘Shit.’

  Andrea’s face hardened as he crabbed sideways off her and rolled on to his back, covering himself with the quilt. The back of his hand covered his eyes, an attempt to hide his utter shame.

  ‘And I suppose that’s never happened before?’ she said stiltedly.

  ‘I won’t say never, but it’s been a rare occurrence.’

  ‘So it’s me then?’ Her voice was hurt.

  ‘No, no, God, you’re wonderful,’ he babbled as she sat up on the edge of the bed, then stood up without shame, displaying her lovely peach-like rear to him, then bent over and collected her clothes, as Henry watched transfixed, gulping.

  She hiked up her panties, picked up her bra and turned to face Henry whilst refitting it with jerky movements making her breasts bounce, and making Henry ache for the nipples he’d not even managed to get his lips around. Lifting the quilt and glancing down hopefully, he still had not reacted appropriately.

  ‘It’s just …’ he began feebly.

  ‘It’s all right, Henry,’ she said, hitching up her skirt. ‘It was a foolish idea in the first place … it would only have clouded our judgement. Y’know’ – she tossed her hair back here – ‘every debrief would’ve been just hot lust and dirty sex.’ She shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t have wanted that, would we?’

  �
�No.’ It was a very squeaky, pathetic sound he made.

  ‘Anyway, you’re obviously drained and need a good night’s sleep. We’d’ve only been fucking all night and that wouldn’t have helped you, would it?’

  She had completed her dressing and now looked down pityingly at Henry, her head tilted to one side as though she was inspecting a strange, horrible museum exhibit. Her mouth gave her face an expression of disgust, like she might have been looking at a medical display at Tussaud’s waxworks.

  ‘Let’s pretend this never happened, eh?’ She swung her bag over her shoulder and strutted to the door, stopping with her hand on the knob, turning back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andrea. It’s not you, honestly.’

  ‘Whatever … let’s meet at midday in the café in Waterstone’s on Deansgate … chat about the way forwards, eh?’

  The words sounded pretty ominous to Henry, but he nodded assent.

  ‘You have no idea,’ she declared with a lioness-like swish of her head, ‘what you’ve missed.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do,’ Henry mumbled to himself as, the morning after, he threw back the quilt and got out of bed following the mental rerun of his clash with Andrea. At least when she had gone, slamming the door dramatically behind her, he had simply fallen asleep for almost nine hours. He thought, hopefully, that maybe it was merely exhaustion that had affected his libido. However, as he glanced down at his presently acorn-sized member nestling in his greying pubic hair, there wasn’t much sign of life.

  Still, as a one-off, and as disappointing as it had been, he decided not to worry about it. He shouldn’t even have been butt naked with another woman, so perhaps it was simply a divine punishment for the sin.

  He stood up with a groan. He had slept well and deeply, but the bed had been too soft for his liking and his lower back was killing him. Putting one foot ahead of the other and making his way to the en-suite shower, he felt about ninety and his liver like a chunk of Accrington brick.