Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

‘ I’m good, thanks. Look, Kate, sorry to bother you, but could I have a word with Henry? I just need some advice about something,’ she lied.

‘ I’m afraid not.’ Kate’s voice changed tone. Danny could not guess why. ‘I haven’t seen or heard from him for a few days now. I thought you’d know that. He’s doing some sort of job for the National Crime Squad and I don’t know where he is.’ Kate knew enough not to say Henry was working undercover. Even other cops might not be trusted. But she was clearly upset by what she was saying and Danny picked up on that.

‘ No, I didn’t know. I thought he was working on some kind of project… sorry to bother you, Kate.’

‘ Danny,’ Kate said quickly before she could hang up. ‘If you do hear from him before me, will you tell him to get in touch? I know nothing bad will have happened to him, but I’d like to speak to him.’

‘ Yes, of course I will, Kate.’

Danny leaned back in her chair, mulling over the conversation. Working for NCS, she thought. Well, that explained some things to her. But what the hell was he doing?

No matter how hard he tried, Spencer was unable to repeat his performance and get a second erection that evening. Try as she might, from oral, vaginal, mammarial and manual stimulation, Cheryl could not help. With a sigh of frustration she rolled to one side and lit another cigarette, blowing lazy smoke rings towards the ceiling.

Spencer sat up and hitched himself into his underpants. He tramped into the kitchen where he opened another can of beer. He came back and sat down by Cheryl. She had pulled a cushion across her stomach.

The rush of weed and alcohol had waned.

‘ What’s the chances of someone coming round here to collect what they’re owed?’ Spencer asked her. He leaned back against the settee.

‘ Fucked if I know, but I’m worried, Spence. There was a lot of gear in that suitcase and bastards like them always come and collect debts one way or another.’ She took a few long drags of her cigarette and stumped it out into the already overflowing ashtray on the floor. Propping herself up on one elbow, she suggested, ‘Spencer, let’s get out of here, at least for the time being. It’d be safer, it’d be sensible. I mean, we can be unemployed anywhere.’

‘ You’d be on the run from the cops.’

‘ The cops aren’t what bother me. Cops don’t kill you or beat you up. Pissed-off drug dealers do.’

‘ What about dosh?’

‘ That never bothered us before. We hardly have any money now.’

He chewed the idea over. ‘We could become like Bonnie and Clyde, robbin’ an’ thievin’ an’ killin’ all over the place. Might be a good laff.’

‘ Or Mickey and Mallory,’ Cheryl added enthusiastically. Natural Born Killers was their favourite film of all time.

‘ Yeah, shootin’ and killin’. Sounds really fucking ace.’ He farted and a nauseous smell erupted from his backside. ‘Money! Money! Money! Fast! Faster!’ he quoted his favourite line from the film.

‘ Come on then, let’s do it,’ she urged him.

‘ What, now?’ he laughed, unsure whether or not to believe her.

‘ Yes, now. Let’s get going. You nick a car, we’ll rob an off-licence and then hit the road.’

The prospect of actually getting dressed and leaving the confines of the warm flat at that exact moment suddenly had no appeal to the future Public Enemy Number One, Spencer Grayson. ‘No, I can’t be arsed,’ he grunted. ‘I’ve had too much bevy. I can’t even get a stiffy up. I just need to get to bed. Maybe tomorrow, eh?’

Cheryl flopped on to her back, drew up her knees and folded her arms across the cushion in a huff ‘Well, thank you very much. Shows how much you care about me — NOT!’

‘ Oh, quit whingeing.’ Spencer stood up and headed towards the bedroom. ‘I’m going to get some zeds.’ At the bedroom door he bent his knees, pointed his rear end at Cheryl, exposed his backside by pulling down his underpants and emitted a massive fart in her direction… a noise which coincided with the front door of the flat being smashed down.

The meal progressed equably. The main course was consumed. Small talk dominated. It was an opportunity for Billy Crane to get updated on gossip. He had been out of the North-West criminal mainstream for four years. It was good to talk.

They reached the end of the meal at 9.30 p.m. Smith paid with his credit card, adding an extravagant tip for the service which had been good — but not that good. The two men left the restaurant and exited the hotel through the revolving doors. Smith waved a hand. A few moments later a black Ford Granada drew up at the foot of the steps. They climbed into the rear and the car pulled smoothly away, out on to the promenade, heading north.

‘ This better be good, Don. I don’t want to spend any more time than necessary in this fucking country. I’m freezing my balls off already.’

‘ Billy, I promise you, it is good. You’d be well upset if I hadn’t brought it to your attention.’

Crane eased back into the plush seat.

‘ Don’t get comfy,’ Smith warned. ‘We ain’t staying in this motor. It’s a bit too flashy, wouldn’t you say?’

‘ Depends on what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.’

They cut inland at Gynn Square, heading east out of Blackpool on the A585. At a lay-by on Garstang Road, the Granada drew in behind a battered-looking Vauxhall Carlton. A man was sitting at the wheel, the engine ticking over.

‘ Come on.’

Smith and Crane jumped out of the Granada and dived into the rear of the less salubrious saloon.

‘ Move it,’ Smith uttered to the driver as soon as the doors slammed shut. Without a word the man released the clutch, looped the car into a U-turn and headed back into Blackpool. The Granada set off and continued east. The change over had taken only a matter of seconds.

‘ You never know,’ Smith said.

‘ Can’t be too careful,’ Crane sighed. He was becoming agitated.

Smith saw Crane’s expression in the light cast by the streetlamps. ‘You’ll know soon enough… and I guarantee you’ll like it.’

‘ Yeah, right.’ Crane stared out of the window, grating his teeth.

Less than five minutes later they were back in Blackpool, motoring south down the promenade then driving into a car park at the rear of a pub in South Shore. It was an establishment controlled, though not owned, by Smith. He took the profits from the bandits and the drugs. The landlord kept his mouth shut, ran a tight ship as far as the law could see, and got a cut big enough to keep him happy.

Smith led Crane in through the back door of the pub and up a flight of stairs to a first-floor room, large enough to have a raised stage at one end, a temporary bar at the other and a dance-floor in between. A couple of rows of chairs and tables were stacked up in front of the stage.

One table and three chairs were set up near to the disused bar. In one of the chairs sat a man holding a pint glass, half full of beer. A whisky bottle and three glasses stood on the table. One of the glasses contained the man’s measure of the spirit which he was drinking as a chaser. An open packet of cigarettes was next to the bottle, resting on its tilted lid, several cigarettes poking out, ready to be selected. The man had one in his mouth. The ashtray indicated he had been smoking pretty heavily.

He rose cautiously as Smith and Crane entered the room.

Smith shook his hand and patted him reassuringly on the arm. The man’s eyes were checking out Crane all the time.

‘ I’d like you to meet my partner,’ Smith said to the man. ‘Names don’t matter at the moment. All you need to know is that this man can make things happen.’