The Last Big Job

Chapter Fourteen

‘ If you are ever thinking of pulling a job and you need some manpower or equipment, anything at all, you give me a bell. I won’t let you down, pal. I’ve got good contacts — discreet and very, very trustworthy.’

These were the words uttered by Jacky Lee to Billy Crane on the day Lee had been released from prison, following his sentence on the conspiracy and handling indictments which — way back down the line — had been instigated by Henry Christie. Crane and Lee had become cellmates by accident on transfer. Crane had been brought across from Wakefield and Lee from Wymott, both into Strangeways and slammed in the same pokey. Their relationship had blossomed and both had confided their plans for the future to each other. Lee had decided to shift his operating base from Newcastle to Manchester and Crane was planning to move out to the Canaries.

Crane remembered Lee’s words well and he knew they were genuinely meant.

He had given Crane a few contact numbers and then stepped out of Strangeways to build his life in the Manchester underworld, leaving Crane brooding and envious in his cell.

He thought that would be the last he saw of Lee, but had been proved wrong on his own release from clink, later the same year, 1996.

Unexpectedly, Lee met Crane at the gates in a gleaming white Roller with smoked-glass windows and a stunning Jewess in the back of it with the longest, shapeliest legs Crane had ever seen for many years, anyway. Lee took Crane to a pub in Crumpsall, north Manchester, where he threw Crane a ‘getting out’ party. This included an hour-long session with the Jewess in a first floor bedroom where Crane was fortunate enough to end up with those legs wrapped around various parts of his anatomy at different times.

At the end of the night Lee reiterated the words he’d said earlier to Crane and both men embraced each other.

It had seemed obvious to Billy Crane that when he needed muscle or equipment, a man like Jacky Lee was the one to approach, particularly as Crane had lost some contact with the part of the criminal world which could acquire shooters, cars, clothing and other blagging equipment easily.

Following the information-gathering sessions with Colin Hodge on La Gomera, Crane and Smith had flown back to England separately, both by roundabout routes. Smith went straight back to Blackpool to get things rolling from his end, and Crane went into Manchester to track down Jacky Lee.

He made his way back to the pub where his release party had been held. Very little had changed in the intervening years, except for when he asked the barman to put him in touch with Lee. It was only then that Crane learned of his death.

Crane had been a quick-thinking criminal since the age of ten. Although Lee’s death left him breathless for a moment or two, he quickly recovered and said, ‘Then, in that case I’d like to speak to whoever is looking after his business for him.’ Crane did not have time for sentimentality at that moment. That could come later, maybe. He needed quick action and if Lee’s successor could accommodate, then it was OK by him.

The barman made a discreet, hushed phone call.

‘ Someone’ll come along and see you,’ he said on replacing the receiver. ‘Drink?’

Crane settled down to a mineral water at the bar, positioned so he could see all the doors… just in case.

He had a short wait. Twenty minutes later, two seedy-looking characters strutted confidently into the pub. The barman nodded in Crane’s direction.

One of the men spoke to Crane without preamble or ceremony: ‘The message for you is that Gary Thompson now controls all of Jacky Lee’s businesses. He knows your name, knows your connection to Lee and says that if you are willing to talk, he is too. If not, fuck off’

‘ Business is business,’ Crane said philosophically. ‘I want to talk.’

The man jerked his head. ‘Come on then, we’ll take you.’

Out in the car park they searched Crane, found him to be clean. He was then driven by them, in silence, in the back of a battered Granada out to Heywood near Rochdale, where Thompson was throwing the birthday party for his girlfriend’s thirtieth.

It was as Crane was led into Thompson’s presence that he came face to face, fleetingly, with Frank Jagger. Crane definitely felt he knew Jagger’s face, but could not place him. Things moved so positively and quickly with Thompson that Crane did not have time to dwell on the encounter with Jagger, or ask any questions about him.

Crane revealed his plan to Thompson in a cautious way, saying that he wanted to hit a security van that was carrying a quarter of a million — tops. Big money by any standards. To have told Thompson that fifty million was up for grabs would have been asking for trouble. That kind of money makes people go glassy-eyed and start to scheme.?250,000 ensured that greed stayed more controlled.

Crane had holed up in a south Manchester hotel, near to the airport.

On the evening that Frank Jagger was due to sell a van full of stolen whisky to Thompson, Crane and Smith were dining in the hotel restaurant, bringing each other up to date on the progress of their arrangements.

Things were going smoothly.

Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov were eager to get involved in the blagging themselves. They would form the bulk of the personnel who would carry out the job. Smith was well on with his side of things: guns were being obtained from dealers all over the North so that no one person would get nosy after supplying a lot of hardware all at once; vehicles were being prepared by a car ringer in Blackpool. And Colin Hodge was still sweet and eager.

Both men were well satisfied.

At the end of the meal, Crane got up and visited the toilet. While he leaned over the urinal, concentrating on the task in hand, the image hit him like a mallet. He stood upright with a shocked expression on his face, uttering a violent swearword under his breath. He hurried back to the table, sat down heavily opposite his partner.

‘ You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Smith observed, puzzled.

‘ I have, Don.’ Crane stared thoughtfully past Smith’s shoulder, then pinged him squarely in the eye. ‘We might have a problem.’

Rupert Davison had always been a high flyer. He had decided at a very early stage in his career about the path it should take and then he had made it happen. He had been twenty-four years old when he joined the police with a business-related degree behind him and two years in industrial management. Two years after joining the Force he had passed his promotion examination to Sergeant, gaining the highest marks in the whole of the country that year. This automatically made him eligible to apply for the accelerated promotion scheme (APS) and after a series of gruelling interviews — at which he excelled — Davison found himself officially classed as a high flyer and was promoted to Sergeant, to the despair of his colleagues. It seemed to them only to confirm that the system was flawed. Two years after that he was an Inspector with high expectations of progressing further.

Davison’s career plan had two prongs to it: one was to be a high-ranking detective at some stage, and another was to become part of that elite group of top cops known as ACPO — the Association of Chief Police Officers. He had his heart set on becoming a Chief Constable by the time he was forty-five.

Whenever possible, he engineered time on CID duties; this was fairly easy to do, as people on the APS could, to a degree, pick and choose their developmental posts. Hence he did short spells as a Detective Constable, Detective Sergeant and Detective Inspector — to get these on to his CV. He eventually got stuck at uniform Chief Inspector, much to his annoyance. Because of this he answered a job advert in Police Review asking for suitably qualified officers to apply for Superintendents’ vacancies in the Greater Manchester Police.

He sailed through the selection procedures, was transferred form Lancashire and appointed to uniform Superintendent. Eventually, assisted by his CV, he got a job as a Senior Investigating Officer on the CID.

This was where his problems began.

He had not realised that a wide CID background was a necessity for this role. He had thought of the SIO more as a management function, rather than an investigative one. He was wrong. Whilst the management side of it was very important, the nous of an investigator — a body-catcher, a detective with a good nose for a collar — was probably even more important.

The first couple of murders he found himself heading were cleared up easily, lulling him into a false sense of security. The next six got nowhere and he started to panic. Six major investigations stalling was not good news for someone who wanted to go higher.

He desperately needed a spectacular success.

Davison knew that in his early days as a cop, his reputation had been one of recklessness. He had managed to curb that very successfully, even though on some occasions this trait would resurface: once, for example, as a uniformed Inspector, he single-handedly rugby-tackled a gunman at a siege, putting his own life and those of others in extreme danger, but at the same time achieving a remarkable result. He had been severely criticised for his actions internally, but externally the media hailed him as a hero.

It was that side of his personality that was driving his actions at the present time. If he didn’t get a result in the Jacky Lee murder case, he knew his time as an SIO would come to an ignominious end and maybe his promotion prospects would be spoiled for ever.

Desperation and the possibility of a superb result made him use Henry Christie and Terry Briggs’s statements and actually interview Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick himself. He could almost visualise the newspaper headlines acknowledging his success. But his lack of criminal interviewing skills showed when both men laughed in his face and admitted nothing; then when Henry had been beaten up, he realised what a stupid error he had made — hence his idea to make the master interview tapes ‘disappear’ from the library to cover his tracks.

And now his career was facing its biggest ever crisis: Henry Christie’s threat to expose his incompetence.

Davison knew that if Henry kept his word — and there was no reason to doubt it — he was finished. Certainly his time as an SIO would end. The subsequent enquiry would highlight his foolhardiness in jeopardising the life of an undercover cop and he would no doubt be accused of corrupt and improper practice for interfering with the interview tapes, maybe even theft. His police career could well come to an end in shame and disgrace.

Yes, Davison realised, in Henry Christie he had a problem.

Six hours after the Russian, Yuri Ivankov, had landed in Paris from Manchester over a week earlier, he was sitting in a cafe in the north of the city of Boulevard des Batignolles at the busy junction with Rue de Constantinople. He was eating a plate of oysters followed by ris de veau and had been there for thirty minutes, mixing in easily and inconspicuously with the early evening crowd, when the target arrived.

Yuri had been adequately briefed on his arrival in the city by a man who sat next to him on the coach from the airport. Little had actually been said, but that did not surprise the Russian. In his area of speciality, most people did not want to interact socially with him. He understood this, took no umbrage. The man simply handed him a slim briefing pack to read, containing a few, but essential, details; these included several recent photographs of the target, when and where he could be found that evening, where and what type of weapon would be available for use.

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, guys,’ 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 fearfully. 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.

Henry moved his head round again. Gunk stepped into his line of sight, wearing a stupid grin of triumph.

‘ Hiya, Frank — or whatever your name is.’

‘ What’s going on, Gunk? What’s this for?’

Gunk held up a silencing finger. ‘Shut up, Frank. I know you’re a cop.’

‘ What the hell are you talking about? We’ve been through all this shit before. I am not a cop, so let me go.’

Gunk shook his head. ‘I know you’re a cop. An undercover cop. I always knew, always suspected. Just something about you that never quite rang true for me. Intuition, I suppose you’d call it. Me in touch with my feminine side.’

‘ You’re wrong, Gunk. Now let me go.’

‘ I hate being done over by anybody, but when a cop does it, I’m really fucking annoyed.’ He leaned into Henry’s face. ‘So you know what? I’m going to make you suffer.’ He reached underneath Henry and found his belt buckle which he started to unfasten. All the while he retained eye-contact. ‘I, on the other hand, will enjoy this. Know what I mean?’

Henry understood exactly. Gunk, who had previously indicated how much he would like to bugger Henry was now going to do just that. Henry started to struggle violently, all sorts of horrendous images flying through his mind. He strained against the twine which fastened his wrists.

A gun appeared in Gunk’s hand. He shoved it into Henry’s cheek and roughly screwed the muzzle into Henry’s mouth, cracking against teeth. Henry stopped moving instantly. His eyes were wide open in fear. Gunk was breathing heavily.

‘ Now then, Frank, if that’s what you want to be called, the choice you have is very simple. Honestly. Stop struggling and let this thing take its natural course like two grown men and I won’t be rough with you. I mean, I will fuck you good and proper, that definitely will happen. Alternatively you can have a bullet in your mouth now. Your choice, pal. Death or rape.’ Gunk’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I know which I’d choose.’

Loz threw Danny down on to the sand between two fishing boats, hardly fifty yards away from the promenade.

He dropped on top of her like a dead weight, forcing himself between her legs, driving all the air out of her body, and pulling her skirt up over her hips. He jammed his dirty bandaged hand over her mouth and with his other he held her left wrist, effectively pinning her down. She could hardly move underneath him.

‘ Now then, you fucking flighty bitch,’ he panted into her face, spittle bubbling out of his mouth. The exertion of the struggle with her across the beach had expended most of his stamina. However, he was on top, in control, had the power. He smiled wickedly and ground his pubic’ bone against hers. She whimpered. ‘You’ve been asking too many questions, causing too many ripples. This is just a warning to you — fuck off back to England and don’t come nosying down here again, or next time, you’re a dead bitch. Got that?’

He allowed her to nod her head.

‘ Good,’ he sneered. ‘But now that we’re here,’ he went on, ‘all intimate, no point in missing a chance, is there?’ He simply could not resist. He released her hand and reached down to unzip his trousers.

Bad move on his part.

Danny had no wish to discover what delicacy lay waiting behind his flies. Nor would she ever placidly accept being sexually assaulted. She would rather have died. She did two things simultaneously. Although his bandaged hand smelled awful, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into it; she also grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into his eyes and followed through with a punch, though it wasn’t as rock-solid as she would have liked.

Loz screamed and rolled over, not knowing whether to nurse his hand or rub his eyes.

‘ You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!’ he yelled in agony, getting to his knees.

Danny had a surge of power and energy, resources tapped from the well of self-preservation. She smacked Loz hard across the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Then she really laid into him, screaming wildly, incoherently, savagely kicking him repeatedly about the head, ribs, guts and legs. He rolled with the blows, scrambling wildly to escape from the barrage, now having lost all the advantage.

Danny was remorseless in her attack, until Loz secured a foothold in the sand, dragged himself to his feet and ran away.

Danny watched him, her eyes afire, doubled over with exertion, unable to give chase. He loped on to the promenade like a wounded animal and disappeared up a side street.

When she had regained control of her breathing and heart rate, Danny found her handbag in the sand and liberated a cigarette from it. She lit it with dithering hands.

Now she knew for certain: she really had rattled somebody’s cage. She knew she should have reported the matter there and then to the police — but the thought of dealing with the Spanish cops filled her with dread. It would turn into a bureaucratic nightmare… if anything came of this, she wanted some English-speaking back-up behind her.

Terry Briggs was feeling worried. He checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d driven away from Henry and Gunk. As he had pulled away, Henry had given a thumbs-up which, in the sign language the two undercover officers had developed between themselves, meant ‘call me in half an hour if I haven’t already made contact’.

Terry had twice tried Henry’s mobile but had not been able to make a connection. It was possible Henry’s batteries were down or that his machine was switched off — but only possible, not probable. A working mobile phone was a lifeline for U/C officers these days and only a reckless one would let the mobile become inoperative. Henry wasn’t reckless.

Terry had driven out of Rochdale and taken the road across the moors towards Blackburn. He had stopped close to a pub called Owd Bett’s.

Forty minutes, then forty-five passed. Not good.

Terry weighed up the odds of cocking the job up, but decided to drive back to the industrial unit anyway. He would think up some excuse for his return if necessary.

He did a U-turn and headed back towards Rochdale. He went into Healey Dell from the opposite direction and bounced down the road towards the industrial estate. As he turned off the road, he slammed on to avoid Gunk’s Jeep which careered out of the estate, slithering and sliding on the loose ground, no lights displayed. Terry caught a glimpse of Gunk at the wheel. There was a savage expression on his features as he threw the fourwheel-drive vehicle around. Then he was gone. With trepidation Terry edged the van across the bumpy ground towards the unit.

Henry’s XJS was parked in exactly the same spot.

Terry’s stomach churned.

Terry could see a light behind the shutter door. He reached under his seat and picked up the expandable baton secured underneath. With a flick of the wrist, he cracked it out to its full length. He switched the van engine off, leaving the headlights on, then stepped slowly down. All was quiet. He could hear nothing at first, then there was something, a sort of sobbing or moaning from inside the warehouse. He approached the side door, fear of the unknown gripping him, his chest palpitating. He stepped inside. Apprehensively with the tip of the baton he pushed the next door, the one which opened out into the unit.

At the sight before him, Terry’s mouth dropped open in shock.