Nick Oldham - Big City Jacks

He led them into Bury town centre. Henry had problems staying with him here. Having to hang back all the time meant either missing lights or running them. Henry ran plenty, unscathed more by luck than skill, and stayed with Lynch, who wound through the town and dropped on to the A58, going in the direction of Heywood and Rochdale.

‘Doesn’t look like he’s going to the office,’ Henry said.

It was just after eight p.m., getting darker, making following even more of a problem. Henry often had to rely on recognizing the rear light cluster of Lynch’s motor.

All three were now getting jittery.

So much for a plan.

As for Lynch, it never entered his head he was being followed. For a start he thought he had done the job on those simpletons from Lancashire. Even though the two cops in the car he had forced into the ARMCO barrier had survived, it had given the Invincibles the chance to regroup and put a better game plan together. Sure, the cops from Lancs would come back, but then the gates would be firmly closed and they would find nothing. The chief constable was hospitalized, the DCI was off sick and Carruthers was now really dead as opposed to just brain-dead. A good job, well done.

Now all that remained was to sort Rufus Sweetman and his cocaine — and that is what he was en route to pull off.

Easton had arranged a meet at a uniquely brilliant location, ostensibly to hand the consignment of drugs back and therefore stop the random shootings of innocent cops. But Lynch knew that no handing over would ever take place. Secretly everyone knew that there would only ever be one outcome, but because the stakes were so high, they were all prepared to take the risk.

Someone was going to die and Lynch was damn sure it would not be him.

He checked his rear-view mirror as he pulled on to the roundabout under the M66. Damn sure. .

They travelled through the small town of Heywood, then bore right towards Middleton.

‘All the best places,’ Henry said.

‘I don’t like this,’ Donaldson said.

‘Nor me,’ Roscoe chimed in. ‘Something’s happening.’

Henry knew what they meant. That inner voice of the experienced cop, wittering in your earhole. He was hearing it, too. Over his shoulder he said to Roscoe, ‘Give Dave Anger a call, tell him where we’re up to.’

She nodded.

Henry was now only one vehicle behind Lynch. Traffic was light on the road and maintaining invisibility was getting more problematical. ‘He’ll clock us soon, if he hasn’t done already. .’ Then Lynch’s brake lights came on and he turned off the main road. Henry could not follow. He had no choice but to drive on and stop after a further hundred metres.

‘I know what’s down there. .’ He looked quizzically at his American friend. ‘It’s the Big City.’

That was its affectionate nickname — the Big City. It was housed in a massive warehouse on the edge of an industrial estate on the outskirts of Heywood, not far from the noise of the M62 at Birch Services. And although it was known as the Big City, it was actually more like a small town. It consisted of a main street, shops on either side, with side streets and alleyways shooting off this main drag, some leading into small squares, others to dead ends. Most of the buildings were merely shells, constructed of plywood, held together by four by two, some were merely frontages like a Wild West film set. Some of the buildings had stairs in them, leading up to first-floor landings and windows, from which rioters could pelt police lines.

There had been many scenes of urban disorder in the Big City, but they were all stage-managed and no one really ended up hurt, because each riot was risk assessed under Health amp; Safety regulations and it was rare for someone to get hit by a flying fridge these days.

The Big City could be found on the perimeter of an industrial estate and it was the public-order training facility owned by Greater Manchester Police. It was the cops themselves who affectionately referred to it as the Big City, but it was also known by other names, such as Dodge City, or sometimes Moss Side. It was a good place to play and learn, an excellent venue to practise tactics, where things could be made to be very real indeed. Even personnel carriers and the mounted branch could come along.

It was in the Big City that Easton had engineered his exchange meeting with Sweetman.

‘It’s as good a place as any. There’ll be no one around. It may belong to the cops, but it won’t be in use. It’s private and there’ll be no one to interrupt our business.’ Sweetman took a lot of persuading, but finally went for it with the proviso that each man could only be accompanied by two others and that no one should be armed. The no-arms requirement was ridiculous, but at least it had to be asked for.

‘All I want is the consignment back, then it’s over between us. I’ll drop the civil case against you, then it’s quits, OK. You get out of my life, I leave you be. Business, not personal.’

Easton agreed, knowing there would be no deal. It was all or nothing, and despite the words and the promises, each man knew that.

‘In my occasional forays into the uniformed branch, I’ve taken part in Regional public-order training exercises down there, when all the north-west forces get together and throw bricks at each other.’

‘Me, too,’ Roscoe piped up, shuddering distastefully. ‘I wonder if that’s where he’s going — and why?’

‘If memory serves me correct — and I have had a nasty bang on the head recently — there’s not much else down there, just a big industrial estate. So’ — he looked at Donaldson — ‘what do you reckon? Only one way to tell — on the hoof.’ He then twisted to Roscoe in the back. She was dressed in her normal work suit — nice jacket, nice skirt, heels on her shoes, not exactly appropriate dress for traipsing around an industrial estate on a dark evening. ‘You stay in the car. Me and Karl’ll go and have a snoop around. That OK?’ He expected some resistance and maybe some complaint about sexist treatment, but it did not come. She was relieved to be staying in a warm car.

Henry reached for his personal radio.

‘Take care,’ Roscoe said. Henry gave her a quick sideways glance and caught her eye in a fleeting moment. Something moved inside him, and he knew something had moved within her too, but he tried to ignore it. He was not going down that road again. He gave her a nod and dived out of the car.

He and Donaldson began to walk quickly toward the road junction Lynch had turned down, their heads down, fastening their jackets against the chill of the night.

The street lighting was poor and there was no problem in keeping to the shadows, two dark figures progressing cautiously but swiftly, keeping out of any pools of illumination. It was almost like a country road, overgrown verges on either side of narrow footpaths. In the distance, away to their right, could be seen the orange glow of the lighting on the M62, and they could hear the dull hum of motorway traffic.

Ahead, the road they were hurrying down did a sharp left, but straight on was the entrance to the industrial estate. Henry recalled it well now. It was a very large estate, rambling and untidy, with lots of open space on it, lots of waste ground and some huge units, one of which was the Big City.

Behind them, a car turned off the main road, headlights ablaze. Donaldson immediately pushed Henry to one side and both men dropped low on their haunches into a sodden ditch which was part of the grass verge. They watched the car drive past slowly, three people on board. It stayed on the road, did not go into the estate.

‘Make out any faces?’ Henry whispered. He could see the whites on his friend’s eyes in the available light.