Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

But Danny could still see the scene, clear and graphic as ever in her mind’s eye.

She remembered opening the kitchen door, full of apprehension.. And there he was. Jack Sands, former lover, lying with his head in the fridge, his legs and arms were splayed and twisted gruesomely. The single-barrelled shotgun lay by his right side. Danny had to step right into the kitchen to actually see his head.

Or what was left of it.

The shotgun had literally blown it right off.

Somehow Sands had wedged the muzzle underneath his chin, in the cleft of soft skin in the ‘V’ of the lower jawbone, angled it slightly, stretched forward and pushed the trigger back with his right thumb. His long arms had easily reached down the length of the barrel.

All because she had ended a relationship between them that was going nowhere, doing no one any favours.

Danny had reeled away in horror back into the hallway and hurled up the contents of her stomach. She remembered little else about the next few minutes until the cops and ambulance people arrived on the scene.

Now she stood and looked at the box-shaped space where her Zanussi had been positioned. She wondered how she should be reacting. Although the scene was still there with her, she found she actually felt very little now. As if it had all been a terrible dream.

Certainly there was nothing here — now — in physical terms. No tangible memories of Jack. Indeed, prior to his suicide, Danny had emptied the house of all memories of him in a fit of pique.

So there was nothing. Every last speck had been cleared away. All the mess which had managed to seep out of the fridge had been sponged away by Henry Christie and some other colleagues.

Danny sighed, walked across the kitchen and plugged the kettle in. A nice, hot cup of tea, without milk, was a good enough homecoming.

In his rage, Billy Crane had gone a whole lot further than he’d intended. He found himself possessed by some uncontrollable inner demon to punish Loz for the lack of judgement that had cost fifty grand.

He’d dragged Loz down to the ground and forced the screaming man’s hand into the lion’s cage through the food-tray flap. Nero, his wild instincts fired up by the events outside his cage, leapt towards the hand. His two massive front paws smashed down on to it, talons extended, and his mouth opened wide, revealing his fearsome array of teeth… at which moment Crane realised that Nero was about to rip Loz’s arm off. With a curse on his lips, Crane tried desperately to extract Loz from the lion’s clutches.

Nero responded by holding tighter, pulling harder and sinking his claws into the hand.

The initial, searing pain had been incredible for Loz: the puncturing of the skin by those dirty, germ-laden claws. Then, mercifully, endorphins and other body chemicals kicked into Loz’s system and it all became unreal for him. A blur. He went limp and allowed it to proceed, unable to put up any fight or struggle.

With one last almighty wrench, Crane managed to drag Loz to safety, though Nero’s talons dug deep, leaving lines of ripped flesh in the back of the little man’s hand.

Deprived of his kill, the lion roared terribly, throwing himself against the cage in a frenzy. For a while Crane was fearful that Nero had the power to pull the structure down. But it held. Just.

Twenty minutes later Crane had calmed down, smoked his fourth cigarette. He sat on a chair, elbows on knees, deep in thought.

Loz cried softly on the rooftop, holding his injured arm between his knees. He rocked like a baby, in a pool of his own blood. The arm was in a terrible mess.

‘ Help me,’ he whined. ‘Billy — help me, man.’

Crane stood up, tossed his cigarette down and stamped it out. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ he announced, turned and left Loz lying there.

Nero, now also calm, having devoured the remaining contents of the coolbox, sat regally inside the cage, eyes focused on Loz.

The next day started in a haze of confusion for Henry Christie. He woke groggily to the sound of not one, but both his mobile phones ringing. He rolled across the expansive double bed and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Then, a little more focused, he blinked down at his phones which seemed to be in competition with each other as to which one could produce the more ludicrous ringing tone. Which was which? Henry had to stop and think for a moment. God, he wasn’t used to this crap. He was out of practice and that could become a problem. A fatal problem if he wasn’t careful.

Which was business? Which was private?

He plumped for one of the phones — it didn’t help that they were exactly the same make and model, either — and stuffed the other one underneath a pillow to drown out its chirping. Then he pressed one of the buttons to receive the call.

‘ Frank Jagger,’ he said. Already his heartbeat was on the increase.

The Russian had been on the road for two hours. He had driven north from Portsmouth, picked up the A34 and skirted around Oxford before joining the M40 northbound towards Birmingham.

Before setting off on his journey, he had quickly but expertly checked the car, firstly for any explosive devices and secondly for any tracking or surveillance equipment. He found neither. Then as he drove, he had remained cautious, always keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, noting and remembering vehicles behind and in front (he had a prodigious memory for car numbers, makes and colours), carefully watching those overtaking, those allowing him to overtake and those parked in lay-bys. By the time he was driving down the motorway slip road north of Oxford, he was almost sure — he never allowed himself to be a hundred per cent certain — that no one was following him. The Russian had been at this game for a long time and was proud of his professionalism. This is what had kept him — alive and put others underground.

In the world of counter- and anti-surveillance, the Russian was classed as a trained agent — which he was. Surveillance subjects fall into three categories: the type who are totally unaware; those who are crude but aware — and this refers to people who are expecting to be followed and who indulge in anti-surveillance methods to try to detect whether they are under observation. And lastly, as mentioned, the trained agent who is subtle and sophisticated and could easily be taken by watchers as someone who is totally unaware.

The Russian hardly ever indulged in obvious anti-surveillance tactics. He usually discovered if he was being followed using the one, two, three method; one sighting of a person or vehicle is acceptable; two sightings is coincidence… three means someone definitely has him under surveillance. Only then would he take some form of action, probably evasion — unless he wanted to kill his followers.

As he drove on to the motorway, he was feeling content. Six miles down the motorway, having travelled at a respectable speed, even slowly overtaking a cruising police Range Rover at one stage, he was even more sure — not a hundred per cent, of course — that no one was with him.

At the second motorway service area he came to — Warwick — he exited. He needed food. He had left Portsmouth without eating breakfast. He also needed to use the toilet.

The service area was nicely set away from the noise of the motorway.

The Russian parked, got out of the car and leaned against it whilst he smoked a cigarette. He watched arrivals and departures and listened to the sky. Not for a helicopter, but a plane. More difficult to spot — impossible when driving — and he knew the British security services often used light planes to tail suspects on the move… but there was no sign or sound of anything.

Satisfied, he inhaled the last of his cigarette and went for breakfast.