The Last Big Job

PART TWO
Chapter Fifteen

Through his dubious contacts in the north of Lancashire, Smith had arranged accommodation for himself and Billy Crane the night before the robbery was due to be committed in a grotty, damp-ridden flat in the west end of Morecambe, an area of town with a shifting population, where crime and drugs were facts of everyday life and strangers did not stand out because everyone was a stranger. It was a good choice of location.

Billy Crane had been unable to get any real sleep. Three a.m. saw him up and about, making black coffee for himself after having to feed the electric meter with coins. He sat on the kitchen floor next to a cold oil-filled radiator, shivering as he sipped the brew.

He moved into what was euphemistically known as the living room. The sum total of the furniture was a double-seater settee with its wiry insides protruding dangerously, and a creaky hard-backed dining chair. There was a gas fire, however, which Crane lit cautiously with a match. He half expected the thing to explode and end the biggest day of his life with a spectacular bang even before it had begun. Without switching the light on, Crane dragged the chair up to the window, sat on it and rubbed the condensation away. The street below was dark and quiet.

His mind was alive, churning with endless questions. Had he done this, arranged that, seen to this, fixed that up? Going over every possibility and scenario in his mind, desperate to seek out the weak link in the coming hours. He was experienced and cynical enough to know there would be one, but he could not put his finger on it — other than to realise that, as in all crimes, the weak link was the human element. That is what always lets you down. The grass, the greed, the weakness, could never be truly catered for.

He rolled his read. His neck cracked.

A smile grew on his lips. He was unbelievably excited by the situation. He had thought he would never again turn to crime of this nature. Robbery was so old hat and very hard to pull off without getting caught that most big time operators like himself had turned to easier ways of making a living. And yet, actually committing a crime like this was better than anything; better than sex, better than the rush of a drug. It was the ultimate experience. Nothing could touch it. He curled his right hand into a fist and gave the air a little jab. ‘Yessss,’ he whispered behind gritted teeth. ‘Fucking good.’

A cop car rolled on to the street, lights out, creeping slowly along. Instinctively Crane drew back, watched it progress past the building in which the flat was situated.

It U-turned at the end of the street and crawled back down. Then it was gone.

Crane exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. He could feel his heart hammering, nerves twisting his innards. He was pleased he felt like this. On edge. Therefore sharp. Therefore able to perform.

He stood up and walked into the bedroom, where Don Smith lay asleep on the rickety single bed. Crane slid into the sleeping bag on the floor and closed his eyes.

There was a long day ahead.

Colin Hodge reported for work at the Preston depot at 6 a.m. As driver for the day it was his responsibility to check over the vehicle, ensure the tank was full, it was clean, there was air in the tyres and that the electronic tracker system was working correctly; he also had to fill in the driver’s log and insert the tachograph. His check, as always, was thorough. It took half an hour, by which time his three colleagues had reported in.

They had a quick brew in the refreshment room.

Halfway through his cup of tea, Hodge stood up suddenly and said, ‘Jeez!’ He held his stomach and winced painfully. ‘Had a curry last night down at the Star… urgh… it’s not agreeing with me at all. I’ve been shitting through the eye of a needle.’ After he had spoken these poetic words, conjuring up such a romantic image, and much to his workmates’ amusement, he rushed to the toilet.

The ‘curry’ story was all part of the act. He had not eaten Indian the night before, but he needed to set the scene for the day ahead.

Nevertheless he did have to go to the toilet in a hurry because his bowels were a maelstrom of fearful turbulence. It was the big day. The one he had dreamed of and planned for, the one which would end his relative poverty for good.

He only just reached the toilet in time.

As industrial estates in Lancashire go, White Lund, on the outskirts of Morecambe on the Lancaster boundary, is pretty big. Hundreds of businesses operate from it, from well managed, prosperous, totally legitimate concerns, to seedy operations run by seedy operators down dingy dead-end roads — and everything in between the two extremes.

It was to one of these seedy operations that Don Smith drove Billy Crane later that morning.

Crane had managed to get back to sleep after his earlier bout of insomnia and was surprised to find Smith waking him at 8 a.m. They had strolled down to the promenade at Morecambe and devoured a big, fat boy’s breakfast at one of the sea-front cafes. Thus fortified, they returned to their lodgings, picked up their car — hired under false details and later to be destroyed — and drove up to White Lund.

They were using the warehouse owned by a guy who was predominantly dodgy. The man dealt in huge volumes of smuggled cigarettes, alcohol and perfumes from the continent, brought in either via the south coast ports or through Heysham, near Morecambe, by way of Southern Ireland. He supplied numerous independent retailers, mainly off-licences, chemists and market-traders with goods at rock-bottom prices. He made a very tidy living. He had been warned off by Smith and well-paid to take a day’s holiday.

Smith now had the keys and the alarm code.

‘ This looks good,’ Crane commented as they drew up in front of the high steel gates outside the warehouse. The gates formed part of a twelve-foot-high fence which encircled the premises. Opposite the warehouse was a wide tract of spare land and no other business nearby had a direct line of sight to the warehouse, which is probably why the owner picked it in the first place, so business could be conducted unobserved.

The warehouse was low and long and big. There were three doors at the front, two roller doors, one of which opened into a loading bay, and a normal door.

‘ That’s why I chose it,’ Smith smiled. He jumped out of the car and unlocked the gates. Crane slid behind the wheel and drove the car into the yard, leaving it parked there. It was 9 a.m. People would begin arriving soon.

Forty miles to the south, Henry Christie pulled off the A59 and drove slowly through the entrance to Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters at Hutton, near to Preston. He flashed his badge at the security man who waved him through impatiently and with the minimum of formality. Briefly Henry wondered about the level of security, not just at police headquarters, but at all police establishments. It was pretty lax, but he was reassured to have been told that in the not too distant future a perimeter fence was to be built and a proper procedure for entering and leaving the place introduced. However, before he could pursue any critical thought, the question of security left him as quickly as it had arrived, like a bubble bursting, and his mind segued back into the state of numbness which had been its feature over the last couple of weeks.

Automatically he turned first left after the gatehouse into Hutton Hall Avenue. On his left were former police houses, all now offices for various departments, including Discipline amp; Complaints and Performance Review. He trundled slowly past the rugby field on his right. As ever it was superbly maintained and looked wonderful in the early morning sunshine. Henry had played regularly on it in his younger days having, in fact, been rather a star of the county team for a couple of years in the late 1970s.

There would be no game that morning.

The windsock was out in one corner of the pitch, drooping obscenely in the breeze-free day and a huge letter ‘H’ had been unrolled, on one half of the pitch. That meant the Force helicopter would be landing later. Henry drove past, not really registering anything, then turned on to the driveway of the house which now belonged to the Occupational Health amp; Welfare Unit (OHWU).

He sat in the car for several minutes, blinking absently. The cassette-player was turned up loud, blasting out the latest studio album by the Stones. The songs perfectly matched the way Henry was feeling, particularly the loud rocker called ‘Flip the Switch’; in it, over Keith Richards’s harsh guitar chords, Mick Jagger sang sneeringly about a guy being executed by electric chair, encouraging the authorities to get the power turned on so that he could get into the filthy pit of hell… into which Henry firmly believed he was stuck at that moment in time.

He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of water, took a mouthful. For a few seconds, whilst rushing the cool, apple-flavoured drink around his tongue, teeth and gums, his mouth felt fresh. He swallowed; within moments the taste had returned, making him retch.

Henry switched the engine off and got lethargically out.

The sleek BMW was next to pull in through the gates of the warehouse yard. Smith was operating the roller door, yanking the chain quickly, making enough of a gap for the German car to drive in. The door rolled shut as he released the chain.

Billy Crane directed the car across to the far side of the warehouse.

Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov climbed out and walked back towards Crane and Smith.

All were dressed in dark clothing and trainers. They looked mean and ready for business, exuding the smell of danger.

Crane eyed them through slitted lids, wondering, his nostrils flaring, a sense of unease in him… He shook it off, smiled and offered his hand to each of them in turn, welcoming them. He led them into the office where he made coffee.

‘ How goes it?’ Thompson enquired.

‘ No problems,’ Smith replied. He checked his watch. ‘Plenty of time yet.’

Not many minutes behind Henry Christie, Danny Furness also arrived at Headquarters, driving her nippy little Mazda MX-5, a car she had purchased following an insurance payout on her last car which had been stolen and torched. She turned left, as Henry had done, and drove past the OHWU just as Henry was walking up the driveway towards the door of the unit. He was the last person Danny expected to see. She thought he was still away working U/C. She saw him, slammed on and pipped her horn to attract his attention, waving madly — delightedly — at him. He frowned, a puzzled expression on his face — and Danny covered her mouth in shock. He peered towards her for a few moments, then realised who was honking at him. He waved listlessly and approached her like it was a chore, almost dragging his feet.

Danny wound her window down. She did her utmost to keep her smile bright, when in fact she was severely appalled by the sight of his face. He looked ten years older, haggard and very drawn and grey. His skin hung loosely off his facial bones, his eyes were surrounded by purple bags. His clothing seemed loose too, like he’d lost an enormous amount of weight very quickly.

‘ Hi, Henry, what’re you up to?’ she asked brightly. The question seemed to faze and embarrass him and throw him all at once. He looked edgily round as though he needed to find a way of escaping the situation, like a trapped animal.

‘ Mmm?’ he responded vaguely. It was obvious he could not think of anything to say. Danny hoped her horror was not betrayed by her expression. It was like being in the presence of an Alzheimer’s sufferer. ‘I’m just going for one of them Healthline checks,’ he said weakly. He was referring to the free, complete health and fitness check offered by the OHWU to members of the Force.

‘ Oh, right — good idea. I could do with one of them,’ Danny said. She knew Henry was telling lies.

He pulled himself together a little. ‘You?’

‘ We’re having a big review of that triple murder and we’re down at the Training School, using their facilities. It’s one of those Where are we up to? Where’s it going? Why haven’t we solved it yet? kind of things. Going to give ourselves a good whipping, I expect. Come down after, if you fancy it. You’d be dead welcome. Your ideas would be helpful.’

‘ I might at that,’ he said. His tone of voice told Danny it was unlikely.

He tapped the roof of Danny’s car and gave her a pallid smile before turning and walking away. He did not give her a backward glance. Danny watched him go, very troubled. In that short exchange she concluded it was not the Henry Christie she knew — and loved. It was a pale shadow and she was intrigued to discover why that was. Maybe he had suffered a bereavement or something — or had he got some horrible disease? She clicked the car into first and drove on down to the training school, her thoughts bursting with Henry Christie.

Next through the warehouse gates was a beat-up Cavalier, its exterior condition belying the fact that underneath the bonnet beat a high-performance engine in prime mechanical condition. It pulled up in one corner of the yard behind the hire car; two men jumped out and made their way directly to the warehouse door which was opened for them by Smith. These were Hawker and Price, the two who had played such a big part in the abduction and murder of the unfortunate Cheryl and Spencer. They had been well remunerated for that job and had lain low since; today they expected to be paid well enough to see them through the rest of their lives.

Smith indicated the office. Hawker and Price joined the others, helping themselves to coffee.

Smith remained by the door, constantly checking his watch. If things kept going as smoothly as this, another vehicle would be arriving shortly. He smiled with satisfaction when a battered Ford Transit trundled through the gates and manoeuvred into a position ready to reverse into the loading bay. Smith already had his finger on the door-open button.

The contents of the van were delivered quickly. Within minutes the vehicle was leaving, the driver having seen only Smith, none of the others. Smith wasn’t too bothered by this. After today, remaining in England would be far too dangerous and unpredictable. He had also made plans for the future.

When the loading-bay door closed, Smith called out, ‘You can come out now.’

The rest of the team, Crane, Thompson, Elphick, Drozdov, Hawker and Price, skulked out of the office.

Smith tossed each one of them a bundle wrapped in polythene.

For Hawker, the package contained an exact copy of the uniform worn by the guards of the security firm whose van they intended to plunder later that day. It had been made to measure and was a perfect fit, including a crash hat bearing the firm’s insignia, overalls, socks and boots and bulletproof vest.

The others received their working clothes for the day ahead: bulletproof vests, overalls, light steel toe-capped boots, black ski masks and black jackets.

Smith looked at his watch again. Half an hour to the next delivery.

It came bang on time.

A very new, flashy Volvo estate drove into the yard, swung round and reversed up to the loading bay.

Again, everyone with the exception of Smith remained scarce as the contents were hauled out by him and the lone driver. There was no hanging about. Within seconds of completing the delivery, the Volvo had disappeared down the road.

Once more the team emerged from hiding and milled around Smith, gazing down at the equipment on the warehouse floor.

Guns. Ammunition. Shock batons. Person-to-person radios.

Smith, who had been basically acting as Quartermaster, distributed the weaponry between each person according to the plan he and Crane had put together. Soon each man was in his own little concentration bubble, checking and loading.

Drozdov looked up. An Uzi machine pistol hung in his hand down by one side, a pistol at the other.

‘ I think, gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘it is time we were told the exact nature of the day ahead.’

Crane nodded. Drozdov was correct. The time had come to reveal all.

The Murder Squad, under the watchful, facilitative eye of the SIO, worked hard that morning, both as a big group in the assembly hall at the Training School and in syndicates dotted around various classrooms on the campus where they focused on particular aspects of the triple murder. In essence they were having a ‘brain dump’, collating and actioning ideas, ludicrous or otherwise, in an effort to take the investigation further.

The team was willing but, as Danny noted glumly, it was fairly short of experience of jobs like this, herself included. Most members of the squad were Detective Constables, and Danny sighed a few times when she gazed round at them; there were far too many young ones for major investigations like this. One of the Detective Inspectors was on the ‘fast track’, acquiring information for his CV on the way up. Hysterically he did not even have an investigative background; such were the philosophies of a police service where it was believed entirely appropriate that if someone possessed generic management skills they would be able to manage anyone or any group of people in the Force. A completely ridiculous ethos, of course. Ask anyone who has tried to manage a team of grumpy detectives without the necessary background. Unless they were exceptional people, they sank.

Danny despaired. The whole thing needed people with the calibre, bottle, clout and experience of detectives like Henry Christie; people who played the system but had the occasional flashes of perception, intuition — whatever — that set them apart from the crowd. And got results.

She saw her chance to make representations when ACC Fanshaw-Bayley strolled cockily into the assembly hall, chatting to the SIO. Someone like FB could get Henry on board.

Danny kept surreptitious tabs on FB’s progress. When it looked as though he was about to take his leave, she moved away from the group of detectives she was working with, sidled up alongside him and gripped him.

‘ Sir?’

‘ Oh, hello young lady.’

Instantaneously she felt her skin creep. She detested the man. He always rubbed her up the wrong way — intentionally or not, she did not know. She had her suspicions that he was naturally a chauvinistic pig.

‘ Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘ Have you got a moment, sir?’

‘ For you, Danny, I have many moments.’

I’ll bet you do, she thought. Don’t you ever learn? Danny knew FB was facing an Industrial Tribunal hearing in the near future for his sexist behaviour. She cut to the chase. ‘Did the SIO give you the party line, or did you get the truth?’

‘ About what?’ He was intrigued.

‘ The state of this investigation. Did he come clean, or did he bullshit you?’

FB blinked rapidly. His voice became serious. ‘I think you should explain what you’re inferring.’

‘ OK — did he tell you that we expect to make an arrest very soon or did he tell you the truth — that we’re basically getting nowhere fast?’

FB’s political head slotted into place. ‘The conversation I have just had with the SIO is confidential, as is the conversation I’m having with you. Now what the hell are you talking about?’

‘ What I’m trying to say is that we need better people on the squad. This lot are OK,’ she gave a sweep of her hand, ‘but they’re plodders and doers. We need some new blood on this if we intend to crack it — because every day we don’t feel a collar, means that whoever murdered those three people is one step further from our grasp.’

‘ I thought you had a particularly good lead in Tenerife?’

‘ I think I have — but I need help on it. Class help. Someone like Henry Christie.’

FB snorted. ‘He’s off sick with some mysterious illness. Doctor’s note says “General Debility”… soft sod. But yeah, he would be good to have, I can’t disagree with that — but he’s off sick, as I said.’

‘ I’ve seen him at Occupational Health this morning,’ Danny said. Despite herself, she batted her eyelashes. ‘Could I ask him if he’d be interested — and would you square it with the SIO if he was?’

‘ What was he doing at Occupational Health?’

‘ Getting a Healthline check, he said.’

FB’s electronic organiser chirped tunefully in his pocket. He looked at his watch. ‘I should be with the Chief Constable.’ He started to move away from Danny, all his thoughts suddenly directed to the meeting ahead. Danny saw she was about to lose him.

‘ Sir, sir… what about Henry?’

‘ Right, right,’ he shouted back over his shoulder. ‘You sort it out with him.’

Danny bunched a fist in joy.

‘ I like this very much indeed,’ Drozdov nodded approvingly. ‘It is a very good plan.’ He raised his black eyebrows at his two business partners, Thompson and Elphick. Their faces acknowledged that it sounded good, too. ‘I particularly like these additional aspects,’ Drozdov concluded with an evil smile. ‘Very cunning.’

‘ Thanks. It’s the kind of thing I’ve done before. It works well — and on today’s scale, it should mean we won’t be troubled.’

Drozdov sat back pensively. He pointed at Crane. ‘You have gone to a great deal of time and trouble for a quarter of a million pounds.’

Crane felt his ears begin to turn red, even though he had been ready for this. ‘Better safe than sorry, and the additional labour is cheap. Look, it’s coming out of my whack, so don’t worry.’

Drozdov eyed him uncertainly, was about to say something else when Smith called, ‘They’re here,’ from the window where he was stationed.

As before, everyone bar him filed back into the office, out of sight. Smith dragged open the roller doors which gave access to the warehouse. Two Audi sports cars were driven in and parked behind Thompson’s BMW Both were stolen, but bore clean number plates, new engine numbers and perfect tax discs (stolen two days before in a Post Office burglary in Swindon); the engines were perfectly tuned and serviced. Only the most rigorous physical check by a nosy cop would start to reveal any defects — and that would never be allowed to happen.

Smith went across to the loading bay and opened that door too. A blue Leyland Sherpa van, 3.5 litres, reversed into the empty space. Again stolen, all details accordingly altered or obliterated.

The drivers of these vehicles knew their jobs. They did not hang around, simply left the keys in the ignition and trotted out of the warehouse, looking neither left nor right, and got into a car waiting for them in the yard. By the time they drove out, the warehouse doors were half-closed.

Smith wandered into the office where the others were downing their umpteenth coffee. ‘That’s everything,’ he announced. ‘One phone call’ — he tapped the mobile on his belt — ‘then we can roll.’

Frustratingly for Danny it was almost 1 p.m. before the Murder Squad review workshop finished. Four hours since she had bumped into Henry that morning. As a Healthline check lasts only about forty minutes, he would be long gone.

Annoyed by that and slightly depressed because the workshop did not seem to have taken the investigation any further, she meandered back to her beloved new car. When she sat down in it, she immediately began to feel better. She turned the engine on and revved it; then she spent a few minutes selecting the musical accompaniment for the return to Blackpool. Stars, by Simply Red. She slid the CD into the slot and as Mick Hucknall’s sex-filled voice grooved in, she drove off the car park and down Hutton Hall Avenue… to be very surprised to see Henry Christie’s car still parked outside Occupational Health.

Danny stopped and reversed into the narrow track by the tennis courts, more or less opposite the OHWU, and waited for him to appear.

Twenty minutes later, the front door opened and Henry emerged. He seemed to have no more energy than earlier.

Danny’s mind revolved. Four hours and twenty minutes. What the hell had he been doing in there for so long?

She quickly got out of her car and strode towards him. He did not notice her, or look up, until they almost collided next to his car.

‘ Danny!’ he said in astonishment, as though she was a being from another planet.

‘ Hello, Henry.’ She held back the desire to say, ‘Bloody long Healthline check, wasn’t it?’ Instead, she said, ‘I need to speak to you.’

‘ Ahhh… what about? Work’?

‘ Yes.’

He shook his head and curled his lip. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m off sick, Danny. I… er…’ he said absently, unable to complete the sentence.

‘ I know you’re off sick, but I’d really like your help.’ She laid a fingertip on the back of his hand, and despite herself and despite Henry’s wretched appearance, a thrill ran through her. She caught her breath. ‘It’s this job in Blackpool, the triple murder.’

‘ I don’t know the first thing about it,’ he said quickly. ‘I have been away, you know.’

‘ I’d still like some advice.’ She took her finger away.

For the first time Henry looked squarely at her. ‘I don’t know.’

Then he looked away, fumbling for his car keys.

‘ Please, let’s go and have something to eat at Headquarters canteen. I really would appreciate it,’ she said coaxingly, but actually against her better judgment because Henry looked very, very ill.

‘ OK.’ He swallowed.

They walked up to the main Headquarters building, past the rugby pitch on which the Force helicopter now squatted like a huge insect. It had arrived mid-morning from its operating base at Warton aerodrome, and barring any call on its services, would be there until mid-afternoon for display to some police authority members and other visiting dignitaries.

The HQ canteen was quiet, most people having dined by that time. They bought sandwiches and a cup of tea each and sat down near to a window.

Hawker and Price had earlier been dispatched to buy fish and chips and cold drinks for everyone. The greasy wrappings were spread around the office. They had all finished eating when the call came into Smith’s mobile. It was a short conversation. ‘Yeah… yeah… thanks.’ Smith looked around from Crane, to Thompson, to Drozdov, Elphick, Hawker and Price. ‘Here we go,’ he said.

Normally Danny found it very easy to talk to Henry. They were on the same wavelength, had the same sense of humour and above all, fancied each other like mad. Her efforts to engage him in conversation that afternoon failed miserably. He was vague, distant… troubled. She started to think this whole idea of hers was a waste of effort and time, and in the end she simply wittered on about the investigation whilst munching her way through her sandwich, trying to think of a withdrawal strategy without causing him offence because he wasn’t giving her anything here at all.

He gazed past her shoulder into the middle distance as she talked. She could tell he was only quarter-listening, but then he turned to her and it was as if the old Henry had come home and switched the lights on.

‘ Repeat that name,’ he said.

‘ Cheryl Jones?’

‘ No, no, no… the other one; did I mishear it?’

‘ Malcolm Fitch?’

‘ Yes, Malcolm Fitch.’

‘ You know him?’ Danny chewed her sandwich quickly, becoming animated.

Henry pursed his lips. ‘Not personally, but I do know that he was an RCS snout before I went on the squad. In fact,’ Henry leaned forwards, bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed, ‘do you remember that night Terry Briggs got shot and Billy Crane turned up at BRI? Nineteen eighty… six?’

The image dazzled Danny’s mind immediately. ‘How could I forget?’

Henry tapped his temple to make himself concentrate. Danny felt the cheeks of her bum squeeze together with excitement. This was exactly why Henry, or someone like him, should have been on the enquiry from the word go, instead of a bunch of inexperienced jacks who had no history to them — not their fault, of course — and who probably hadn’t even been in the police in 1986. But Henry was one of those detectives who had ‘it’ — that certain something which sets them apart from the pack. Yeah, all those things like knowledge, experience, a prodigious memory, but also the ability to piece things together, to give attention to detail and above all, be there for others to learn from.

‘ You probably won’t remember the guy, and there’s no reason why you should, but the detective who set that whole operation up that night, the Building Society break-in…’

‘ Barney Gillrow,’ Danny offered.

‘ You do know him?’ Henry was surprised.

‘ Yeah — I haven’t come to that bit in my story yet, but you go on, Henry.’ Danny’s eyes flashed at him. God, she wanted to grab him there and then and have him across the dining table.

‘ If you think back, you’ll remember that — strangely enough — only two of the three offenders were arrested for the burglary. Billy Crane and Don Smith. We got Billy at the hospital and Smith got pulled coming out of the back door of the shop next to the Building Society.’

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.