by Nick Oldham
‘What’s the plan?’
‘We kill time.’ Mitch checked his watch. ‘Ten past four … we meet them in their hotel room, get the stuff and head home. Simple,’ he said, but Henry did notice there seemed to be a fatal omission in the running order: no mention of the ‘skimming’ issue.
‘In that case I’m going to stretch my legs and have a wander around town, maybe get a bite … if that’s OK with you?’
‘Time’s your own, just be back here at half five.’
‘No worries.’ Henry was out of the car in a shot, striding out before Mitch could decide to tag along. He cut through the car park, found himself near a footbridge which spanned the Avon that he crossed quickly towards town, the Royal Shakespeare Theatre over to his left. Mitch, he was glad to note when he shoulder-checked, was not in sight as he crossed Waterside and turned up Bridge Street, the main shopping thoroughfare, and went in search of a mobile phone shop.
His own phone was still on the dashboard of the Peugeot in Manchester and he needed a replacement, charged up and ready to go. He found a Carphone Warehouse and bought the cheapest pay-as-you-go he could find, and with further cajoling and a palm crossed with silver, he also bought a charged-up battery for it from a member of staff’s own phone.
Thus armed he almost stepped out of the shop right into Mitch’s arms.
Henry spotted him at the last moment and was lucky that the big man was looking in the opposite direction. Henry dropped quickly back into the shop and attempted to secrete himself behind one of the cardboard displays as Mitch rolled past – and did not look inside the shop.
Aware of the curious looks from the staff, he stood upright and walked slowly to the door and saw that Mitch had continued his journey up the street. Henry twisted away in the opposite direction, then turned into British Home Stores and went to the first floor. Between racks of clothing he switched on and registered the phone. There wasn’t a great signal, but good enough to put in a call to Andrea Makin, raking up her number from memory.
‘Where the hell are you, Henry?’
‘Shakespeare country.’
‘What?’
He told her.
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Drugs deal, I think.’ He glanced at a lady who was inspecting a rack of clothing. She eyed him uncertainly. He gave her a wan smile and turned his back to her and filled in Andrea on what had happened since he’d last seen her, and gave her all the new information he had got on Ingram from Mitch over breakfast.
‘You be bloody careful,’ she warned him.
‘It’s my middle name.’
‘What is?’
‘U-be.’
She giggled. ‘And what the hell is this number?’ He filled her in on that, too, then ended the call, switched off the phone and wondered where best to hide it. It could be a lifeline and he didn’t want to lose it, or let Mitch get his grubby mitts on it. He had an idea on that score which entailed a short visit to WH Smith’s on the opposite side of the street.
Next he found a café – not difficult in Stratford – and bought a lasagne and a bottle of mineral water, which he consumed heartily. He then killed more time with a coffee and a discarded newspaper before going into the men’s room, locking himself in a cubicle and taking down his trousers.
It was just after five when he emerged into the end-of-the-day throng in the street, then made his way back across Clopton Bridge to join Mitch who was back in the Sonata, seat reclined, having been asleep. He looked groggy and puffy-eyed.
‘Hi, sleepyhead.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Moochin’, eatin’,’ Henry said.
‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘Why were you looking?’
Mitch did not answer. Using the steering wheel he heaved himself upright, put his seat back up and declared he needed to piss. He was about to get out of the car when a big Audi saloon rolled into the car park and pulled up close to the back door of the hotel, marked, ‘To Reception’.
‘Here they are.’
Instinctively Henry lowered himself in the seat and watched two young men get out of the Audi, and each carry a holdall from the boot into the hotel. They looked relaxed and confident, had ‘the walk’.
‘Let ’em check in, then give ’em a call.’
‘OK.’ Henry’s heart stepped up more than a beat. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘We go in, get the packages, leave.’
‘Why the change of clothing?’
‘Just in case.’
‘Of what?’ Henry was getting annoyed by the conversation and feeling jumpy. He didn’t mind a drugs deal going down. That sort of thing was bread and butter for an undercover cop. You just went with the flow and no one got hurt. Things changed seriously when there was the possibility of harm coming to someone. Then duty had to kick in. Whilst Mitch hadn’t actually said anything concrete about causing harm to either of these men, he had less than subtly hinted at something and Henry believed Mitch was capable of going the whole nine yards if he had to. There was an undercurrent of violence running through him, underneath all that flab. Henry guessed he would be no slouch when it came to crunch time.
‘I thought you needed a piss?’
‘I’m holding it.’ Mitch squirmed, kneading his privates.
They sat back and waited, giving the men, A and B, fifteen minutes to get settled in their rooms.
Then Mitch called one on his mobile.
‘Hey, it’s me … yeah, thought you would’ve … look, can we proceed? I know you’ve got places to go.’ Mitch listened a moment. ‘Yep, good … room two-one-six … be there in minutes.’ He ended the call, turned to Henry. ‘All you need to do is carry the merchandise, OK, Frank? That’s all you need to do,’ he stressed. Mitch’s breathing became shallow. Henry saw he was suddenly wound up: licking his lips, sweat on the forehead. Or maybe he just needed to get to that toilet. ‘Let’s do it.’
The pair walked nonchalantly through the hotel, bypassing reception and seeing no one else in the corridors. Room 216 was on the first floor, in a wing a long way from the front of the hotel. There was a painting of some sort of wading bird on the door.
‘Hey, a redshank,’ Mitch said, then knocked.
The door opened.
Behind it stood Man A, so named by Henry, who saw he was of Asian origin. He was the smaller of the two men, but looked strong and muscled as though he worked out and wasn’t averse to a steroid or two. He smiled, flashing bright, unnaturally white teeth with an inlaid diamond in a front one, which twinkled in the light.
He was dressed in a tight-fitting vest and tracksuit bottoms.
‘Mitch, hi,’ he said. His eyes took in Henry. They narrowed. ‘Who’s this?’
‘New member of staff.’
‘CRB checked and everything,’ Henry quipped.
Both men gave him a withering look.
‘OK,’ Man A said. He trusted Mitch. They’d done business in the past. He jerked his head and all three retreated into the room, passing the bathroom on the left, wardrobe on the right, opening out into a double bedroom where Man B lounged indolently on the bed, still dressed in his suit. Henry guessed the room was probably Man A’s, because he’d had a change of clothing.
‘How do, Mitch,’ Man B said amiably. He was a white man, well tanned, with slicked-back hair. He was a good-looking fellow, something along the lines of Pierce Brosnan in his James Bond days, but younger, fitter, alert and more dangerous.
As opposed to the Honey Monster with Henry.
Man B did not even look at Henry.
The two holdalls they had brought in were on the suitcase shelf next to the dressing table.
‘No probs?’ Mitch asked.
‘None.’ Man A was standing by his side, Henry was behind Mitch, but he could also see a couple of hand guns on the dressing table.
Mitch picked one up.
Both A and B suddenly became rigid.
‘No probs, good to hear.’ Mit
ch inspected the gun, turning it to the light. To their relief, and Henry’s, he replaced it. ‘Look guys,’ he started to say. ‘Jeez, need a piss … mind if I …?’ He sort of pointed to the bathroom.
‘Help yourself.’
Mitch disappeared into the bathroom, closed and locked the door. The sound of him urinating filled the silence, a long, sustained function.
Henry gave A and B a forced smile. ‘Big bladder.’
‘You a new employee, eh?’ Man A asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘Uh, cultural director,’ Henry said, off the cuff.
Both men regarded him with screwed up faces as though he were nuts.
Mitch’s peeing continued behind the close doors. He even groaned in relief.
‘Motorway coffee,’ Henry explained.
The toilet flushed. A tap ran. Mitch hummed noisily, happy now.
Man A perched on the edge of the bed. Henry’s eyes moved from the men, to the holdalls, to the guns. He even found himself estimating how long it would take him to reach the firepower. It would be a tight-run thing, that was for sure.
A relieved Mitch emerged from the bathroom, smiling. He stood behind Henry.
‘Right guys,’ he said, rubbing his wet hands together. ‘Is it all there?’
‘As ever,’ Man B said defensively.
‘Mm, as ever,’ Mitch ruminated. ‘Frank …’ He touched Henry in the middle of the back. ‘Grab the bags.’
Henry took a step.
‘Do we need to check it?’ he asked.
‘No, these guys’re sound.’
Henry saw the faintest glimmer of relief in A and B. Their skimming, so they thought, had gone unnoticed … at least that is what they believed as Henry grabbed a holdall in each hand and lifted them up. They were pretty weighty, but then half a million’s worth of coke, less the skim, would be, he thought.
Mitch stood aside as Henry passed him and went to the room door. He turned and Mitch was still facing the two delivery men. Just then Henry noticed the handle of a pistol sticking out of his waistband at the small of his back.
‘By the way, guys, this’ll be the last drop-off for you.’
The men tensed up. Their eyes immediately became wary, flicking between their weapons and Mitch, sensing something was now very wrong.
With a speed which Henry would have thought him incapable of, Mitch suddenly grabbed one of the guns from the dressing table and pointed it somewhere between the men.
‘What the fuck’s going on, Mitch?’
‘Game over, fellas. Mr Ingram don’t like cheats. He pays you well and you still wanted more.’
‘Hey, hey, don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Man A said quickly. ‘We don’t rip any cunt off.’ His hands were up submissively, palms forward, in a gesture of innocence.
Mitch switched hands. The gun went from right to left, then his free arm snaked round his back and he slid the pistol out of his waistband. It had a slim silencer screwed on to it. It was a .22 calibre, an assassin’s gun.
‘We know,’ Mitch said, emphasizing the second word. ‘Enquiries have been done.’
He didn’t waste any more time, which is the way things are done in real life. Killers did not spend a great deal of time chatting to their victims, discussing the psychological aspects of their crimes. They just killed.
The first shot, no more than a ‘phtt’ went into Man A’s face, smacked into his left eyeball at an angle which meant it spun out through his temple, jerking him around and showering the wall and bedside cabinet with blood, brain and eyeball.
Man B started a frantic scramble away up the bed, a squeal of terror starting to form in his mouth.
Mitch shot him in the throat, then in the right shoulder, the impact of the bullets throwing him off the bed. He landed with a thump on the carpet between the bed and the window. Splashes of blood flicked across the net curtain. He gurgled and writhed where he lay, his hands clawing at his throat.
Mitch ‘humphed’ and turned his attention back to Man A.
He was dead, half on, half off the bed, a quarter of his face missing. For good measure Mitch put another in his head, one in his chest. He then walked around the bed and finished off Man B.
This done, he stood upright and looked at Henry, grinning with satisfaction.
Henry had frozen, transfixed.
He had been more than right about Mitch. Big and fat though he was, he was also fast and deadly.
Henry was stunned, looking accusingly at Mitch, who said, ‘What, Frank? Had to be done.’
Henry opened his mouth, but words would not come.
Mitch checked his watch. ‘I reckon if we put the “do not disturb” sign on the door, we’ve a good sixteen or eighteen hours before these idiots are found.’ His tone was matter-of-fact and businesslike. ‘Let’s just get their phones off them, first.’ Henry did not move. ‘Get their phones!’
‘Me?’ Henry found a tiny voice.
‘Yeah – there’s one on the bedside cabinet there, the other’ll probably be in a pocket. Can’t have the cops finding any incriminating numbers, can we?’
Henry dropped the holdalls and sidled past Mitch, picked up the phone and pocketed it, his eyes always on the dead man.
‘Now get the one from him,’ Mitch ordered, jerking his index finger at Man B on the opposite side of the bed. Henry did as he was told and knelt down next to dead man number two, he of the gaping throat wound, one in the head, one in the chest, one in the shoulder.
‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
‘Oh, just fucking get on with it,’ Mitch whined impatiently.
Henry got on with the task, Mitch overseeing his work. He found a mobile phone in Man B’s pocket and fished it out, unable to prevent himself getting blood on his jacket at the wrist. ‘Done,’ he said, shakily standing up.
‘Here, give them to me.’ Henry passed both phones to Mitch. In his left hand, Mitch was still holding the gun belonging to one of the dead men. He looked at it, then at Henry, who felt his legs quake. But Mitch shook his head angrily. ‘Why did I pick this bloody thing up? Now I’ll have to take it as it’s got my fingerprints all over it. What was I thinking? Stupid boy … should’ve just blasted the fuckers … still …’ He looked around the room. ‘Don’t think we’ve left anything in the way of DNA and shit, have we?’
‘Did you wipe the toilet and the sink?’
‘Good point. I pissed on the rim.’ He went back to the bathroom. Henry heard him humming whilst he cleaned the toilet with loo paper, then flushed it away. He came out, slid the gun he had been foolish enough to pick up into one of the holdalls. His own gun had disappeared and Henry wondered where it had gone, but he could have hidden it anywhere under all that fat.
‘OK, grab the bags, pal … plan is’ – he bent to peer through the security spy hole in the door – ‘you mosey out through the hotel by yourself and get into the car, which is open. Put the bags in the boot. Then wait for me. Best if we’re not seen together. I’ll be with you in five.’
‘OK,’ Henry said numbly. He heaved up the bags, Mitch let him out of the room and he walked stiffly down the corridor.
In the car, Henry’s mind started to whirr as he gasped for air. What was the next step here? He had just witnessed a double murder and all his instincts told him to arrest Mitch – now! But there was still the chance of implicating Ingram and as Mitch had pointed out, there was a window of time ahead, maybe sixteen hours, which might be used to good advantage – if he played it right. The trouble was, Henry wasn’t the player here. He wasn’t making the moves. He was just caught up in the whole heap of shit.
Mitch yanked the driver’s door open and dropped his bulk into the seat, his body venting a contented groan.
‘A good piece of work, well done,’ he said, chuffed with himself. ‘Two pieces of shit dealt with, half a mill still in the bank, we’re on the road and I’m going to stop for a huge burge
r at the first motorway services we come to. I feel like the Blues Brothers. And,’ he added, ‘to cap it all, I’ve got this.’ He held something up between his finger and thumb, which glinted in the light. ‘Couldn’t resist – and can you blame me? He reckoned it cost three grand.’
It was the diamond that had been inset in Man A’s front tooth.
Thirteen
Henry Christie was in a toilet cubicle at the northbound Stafford motorway services on the M6. Mitch was stuffing his face in one of the restaurants and Henry had little time to compose his thoughts, but one recurring theme he was unable to quash was ‘Henry Christie and the judgement call’.
This, he thought sourly, could all go very, very wrong.
He knew if he didn’t get it right, there would be no forgiveness anywhere, from anyone. I will be for the high jump and all those other clichéd phrases and sayings that go with police discipline, sacking, court appearances and loss of pension rights – and a chief inspector’s pension at that.
He swallowed drily.
The fact was he had witnessed someone kill two other men and undercover though he may have been, there was a forceful argument he should have emerged from the shell that was Frank Jagger, morphed into Henry Christie and laid hands on Mitch’s collar, nicked him, sod the rest of it. Go after Ingram when Mitch was banged up and screwed to the floor, unable to wriggle out of anything.
If Henry got this wrong and, for whatever reason, lost Mitch, then he was very definitely up the Swannee without any form of propulsion at all … but … but … Henry wanted Ingram now. Hell, society wanted Ingram, and if he had arrested Mitch there and then, the chances were that Ingram would remain untouchable. But if Mitch stayed free, at least for another sixteen hours, then maybe he could drop Ingram in it either through his own verbosity or though conversations with his boss which were overheard and recorded by Henry …
… the judgement call of Henry Christie questioned once again.
He pulled down his jeans. Sticky-taped to his inner right thigh was the mobile phone he had bought in Stratford. He pulled it free carefully, wincing as his hairs were ripped from their roots, switched it on and waited an interminable length of time for it to pick up a signal.