Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

Billy Crane did not return to his home town of Blackburn. Instead, he was driven to the Lancashire coast where he took a room at the Imperial Hotel, Blackpool, which had been booked for him under an assumed name. The hotel was on the sea-front, North Shore, and was the one in which high-ranking politicians usually stayed during political conference week. He was shown to a suite on one corner of the building, overlooking the promenade. In the past, he was reliably informed by the porter, the room had been occupied by Prime Ministers during their stay at the resort.

When the porter left, Crane gazed round the room fairly unimpressed. It seemed a lot of money for not much. But it was fine for his needs and it was unlikely he would be recognised in this environment. He walked to the window and looked at the grey Irish Sea, his countenance set grim.

Then he lay on the wide bed, set his alarm and dozed off. Travel was very tiring. He woke before the alarm, showered, shaved and dressed smart but casual. Fifteen minutes later he was in the bar ordering a gin and tonic.

Not long after, another man sauntered in. Crane’s business partner. After a quick drink, they gravitated into the restaurant and ordered dinner.

Anyone observing them would have found it difficult to guess that between them, they operated one of the most successful drug-smuggling operations in Britain, or that, unless the observer could lip-read, their conversation that evening revolved around the subject of murder.

Totally naked, Cheryl and Spencer lay on the carpet, warming themselves next to the triple-bar electric fire.

Cheryl was dribbling beer into Spencer’s mouth from her own. Both were smoking, passing a tatty joint back and forth filled with very potent Moroccan skunk, giggling as the weed took effect. Their world was now a very pleasant, if slightly off-centre, place to be.

Reality did strike when Cheryl glanced up at the teddy-bear clock on the wall. She squinted at it, focused, and worked out it was ten past eight.

‘ Oh shit.’ She pushed herself up. ‘I should’ve signed on. Fuck.’ She tried to get up, but Spencer pulled her back — a gesture that probably sealed their fate that night.

‘ Fuck ‘em,’ he told her. ‘It’ll be all right. I should know — I’ve been on bail loadsa times.’ He manoeuvred her so that her small breasts were positioned over his face. He opened his mouth and sucked in the left nipple and a fair proportion of the mammary behind it, filling his mouth.

His name was Don Smith. He operated and controlled the British end of Billy Crane’s Tenerife-based drugs connection. Crane, Smith and another man had been the three who had committed the Building Society robbery in Blackburn in 1986; subsequent to that, Crane and Smith had served time together, though Smith’s sentence had been shorter than Crane’s. Their time banged up together had been the foundation of the drugs business, Crane being very much the man in charge.

‘ I’m glad you decided to come over, Bill,’ Smith said. ‘We don’t see enough of each other.’

‘ Let’s keep it that way, Don.’ Crane wiped his mouth as he finished the last of his soup. ‘You never know who’s watching us. It’s best we stay apart.’

‘ Yeah, I know that. Communication being what it is, we don’t need to meet so much. But it is good to see you.’

Crane nodded in agreement.

‘ I want to take advantage of you while you’re here,’ Smith went on. ‘I know you want to do the business and then get home quick, but I’ve had an approach from someone and I want you to meet him. Something I want you to consider.’ Smith was excited.

‘ I’ve come for one thing only.’

‘ I know, but this is well worthwhile, believe me. And,’ he said mysteriously, ‘there’s something else on top of that you’ll be interested in.’

Crane rolled his eyes. He did not have time for games.

‘ Hey,’ Smith said placatingly, recognising he was beginning to wind his friend up. ‘Trust me.’

‘ I do trust you, Don.’ A waiter arrived and removed their soup dishes. ‘I enjoyed that,’ Crane said to him.

‘ Thank you, sir.’

Crane leaned on the table when he’d gone. ‘It’s not you I don’t trust.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s all the other cunts.’

‘ Bill, believe me… everything tonight will be worth your while.’

Crane shrugged. ‘OK — so what about the first item on the agenda — fifty g’s worth of smack in police hands?’

‘ As we speak, it’s being sorted.’

Detective Sergeant Danny Furness stared down at the assorted paperwork on her desk which contained figures, charts, graphs, crime-pattern analyses — all produced on Excel software in very pretty multi-coloured bar charts and pie charts — and rubbed her gritty eyes. She had been attempting to make sense of the statistics which told her, in a complicated format, that crime was rocketing unchecked throughout Blackpool and whatever the police tried to do was failing miserably. Unfortunately Danny had the unenviable task of communicating this bad news to the Divisional Management Team at their next meeting and explaining why things were going wrong.

She knew she was going to get a pasting.

‘ Stuff it,’ she hissed, tidied all the papers up and dropped them into one of the wire baskets on her desk. It did not matter which one. They were all brimful of paper, everything crying out to be dealt with — now!

It was 8.30 p.m. She’d had enough. Another twelve-hour day. She rose slowly from her chair, stretching her aching spine, and slid into her coat. She was brain dead. She walked out of the CID office and trotted down to the front desk of the police station where one of her friends was working, a Public Enquiry Assistant (PEA) called Helen. She was busy. There was a waiting room full of people and she looked harassed. She was due to finish at nine; Danny wondered if she fancied a drink.

‘ I do, actually,’ Helen said, filling in a vehicle document production form — an HORT2. ‘I’m parched, tired and irritated. Where?’

Danny suggested the name of a decent pub not far from the nick. They agreed to meet up at nine and walk there together.

‘ Oh, incidentally,’ Helen said as Danny was leaving, ‘your friend hasn’t signed on tonight. Cheryl Whatsername? Big time druggie.’

‘ Big time sucker, you mean.’ Danny looked at the bail signing-on book and turned to Cheryl’s page. She had signed on in the morning, but not this evening. Danny pouted. She checked her watch. ‘Time yet

… see you at nine, Helen.’

Which left Danny another twenty minutes to get her head around the crime figures and come up with some excuses for the DMT. She closed the signing-on book and trundled back to her desk, sat down despondently and lifted the paperwork out again.

Danny knew why she could not motivate herself.

Henry Christie.

Or to be more accurate, a lack of Henry Christie.

She missed him dreadfully. Just to talk to, listen to his supportive voice, maybe fall into his arms at least once. Oh God, I’m in love with a boss and a married man again, she punished herself. Will I ever learn? At least he had the strength of character not to encourage her, even though she could tell he was interested.

But she did need to talk to him. Just talk, that was all. She looked at the phone, picked it up and before she could stop herself, dialled his home number. It rang out several times. Danny was almost relieved no one was there and was about to hang up when it was answered.

‘ Hello, Kate Christie,’ came the bright voice from the other end.

Danny’s tummy rolled over. She considered slamming down the phone, but kept her nerve. ‘Hi Kate, it’s Danny Furness.’

‘ Hi Danny, how are you?’