Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

Her eyes closed momentarily. ‘Oh, Cheryl,’ she said sadly, ‘just what I feared. Shit!’ She shuddered a deep sigh of revulsion and squatted down on her haunches, spending several quiet minutes in that position, gazing down at the three bodies lying one on top of another. Initially she had been looking through sheer fascination, then her detective mind clicked in and took her on to analysis and evidence.

‘ Hell of a sight for a woman to see,’ a voice said behind her. Danny recognised the dulcet tones of Dave Seymour, one of the detectives on her team. He was very close to retirement, had been on CID for most of his service and was one of the most persuasive arguments for disbanding the whole department. He was everything that was bad about the CID: overweight, sexist, racist, homophobic, narrow-minded and difficult to supervise. Henry Christie could get Seymour eating out of his hand; Danny, however, had a lot to prove to Seymour and the biggest hurdle she faced was that she was a woman. And women should not be detectives, particularly not Detective Sergeants — at least, as far as Seymour was concerned. ‘Let’ em do what they’re good at,’ he often said. ‘Looking after kids and brewing up.’

Danny rose to her feet and noticed Seymour was standing outside the path margins. She knew, however, he had been up in the office talking to the garage proprietor, Peter Maynard. Danny scanned Seymour. In response to his opening remark, she said, ‘Yes, Dave, you are a hell of a sight, but you’ve got to make the best of what God gives you.’

Seymour’s mouth dropped. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘ I know you didn’t, sweetheart.’ She gave him a triumphant grin, then indicated the cordon tape. ‘This is the route to the scene from the door, Dave. For the time being, until somebody tells us different, that’s what we’ll all keep to. What does the owner have to say?’

‘ Denies all knowledge, as he would. Says no one but himself has keys to the place and he doesn’t recognise any of the deceased.’

‘ Do you believe him?’

‘ No. First of all, there’s no sign of a forced entry, which tells me the place was either left open, or someone does have the keys. Secondly, he’s a fly bastard — but he’s very, very nervous.’

‘ As he should be… he’s our first suspect. Let’s speak to him in the five-star comfort of the copshop.’ Danny raised her eyebrows, then had a thought. Her original intention had been to take Peter down to the station. That, however, presented problems in terms of dealing with him thoroughly. If he was not under arrest, he had the right to get up and walk away at any point if he so wished. It would be better if he was arrested. That way he couldn’t go anywhere, and it gave the police more powers to search and seize evidence, including bodily fluids and tissue — which might be a good idea. ‘Lock him up,’ she told Seymour.

‘ Will do.’ He made his way back up the rickety wooden staircase to the office. It creaked under his weight.

Danny mulled over what she had got so far; pretty soon she would have to be briefing senior officers.

Three bodies in a vehicle inspection pit. All naked, with apparent gunshot wounds to the head. Two of the deceased known to Danny. Local thieves and druggies, and Cheryl a failed drug importer. The third body was that of an unidentified male, maybe late forties.

Danny already knew of a good reason for the deaths of Cheryl and Spencer: ruthless drug dealers who did not take kindly to the loss of about fifty grand’s worth of junk. Danny would be very surprised if the killing turned out to be for anything other than that. That, therefore, would definitely be one avenue for the investigation. Another would be identifying the other man; once that was done, other ways forward might spring up.

The other line of enquiry would be through the owner of the garage. Who is he? What’s his background? Who are his associates? Digging into his ribs could prove extremely profitable indeed.

Then there was the scientific evidence, not forgetting that Cheryl’s flat would need to be thoroughly examined by Search and Forensic teams now.

The office door opened at the top of the stairs, and Seymour led out a man with thick, straggly, oily hair, shoulder-length, wearing a pair of dirty overalls. Peter Maynard. He was about to begin helping the police with their enquiries. He looked exactly as Danny had expected.

Seymour led him out of the garage without a word.

Danny walked to the edge of the inspection pit once more and looked down at the three bodies lying one on top of the other. She was reminded of a Nazi war grave.

It made her realise just how dangerous the people behind this were.

At noon on Monday, the third day of his ‘holiday’, Colin Hodge awoke with the most terrifying hangover of his life, brought on by over-indulgence on San Miguel beer and cheap whisky. The bedroom of the apartment was in darkness, with the exception of slits of light filtering in through the cracks and between the curtains. The room was very untidy now. Clothes, plates and beer bottles were strewn around. Hodge slowly eased himself into a sitting position, desperate not to dislodge the ball bearings which seemed to be rolling around at the back of his eyes.

He breathed deeply and was nearly sick there and then, but he kept hold of it. The woman next to him in the bed groaned in her sleep. Hodge squinted at her. She was past her prime and not exactly on the petite side, but the previous night had verged on the incredible. Hodge touched his cock, which felt tender. It had been well abused.

He swung his legs out of the low bed, placing his feet on the cold floor tiles.

He could tell it was another hot day in Tenerife. So far over the weekend he had not seen much of the daytime, but was determined that he would get some sunbathing done today. Pointless to be here on a freebie and not get the benefit of the sun’s harmful rays. He stumbled out of the bedroom and tottered into the bathroom where he had a long shower. He wondered when they would come for him. Apart from anything else he was running low on his cash reserves. He needed a peseta injection.

As he stooped to soap down his legs, the shower curtain drew back. The woman had woken. She stepped in to join him.

Hodge was correct: it was hot in Tenerife. Baking hot at Reina Sofia Airport where Billy Crane waited impatiently for the passengers to filter out from the recently arrived flight from Manchester.

Don Smith was first one through, carrying only an overnight bag and a briefcase.

They shook hands and left the terminal building, climbing into the rear seats of a Ssang Yong four-wheel-drive monstrosity waiting for them. It was driven by Loz, Crane’s business partner and lion hors d’ oeuvre. His injured left hand was strapped up in a dirty-looking bandage and was resting. between his thighs. The vehicle was an automatic with power steering and he was able to drive safely enough with just his right hand. When the two passengers were settled into the back seat, Loz pulled away.

‘ Good flight?’

‘ Cramped as fuck,’ Smith complained. He rolled his neck, which creaked. He had managed to squeeze in on a spare seat on a holiday charter flight. ‘My arse is still asleep.’

‘ Where are we up to with our friend?’

‘ Checked him out.’ Smith positioned his briefcase on his lap and snapped it open. He extracted a file of papers which he handed to Crane.

‘ Give me the gist,’ Crane said. He would read the file later.

Loz shifted slightly and cocked an ear rearwards.

‘ OK, the gist is that Colin Hodge is a bit of a sad bastard. He lives alone at an address in Bispham, north of Blackpool. Semi-detached house, forty grand mortgage, negative equity. Wife pissed off about two years ago, shacked up with some guy who guts chickens in a factory, which kind of indicates just how much of a boring twat Hodge is. Been working for the same security firm for eight years as a guard. Been robbed once — on a collection in Carlisle. Just dropped the money and shat himself, apparently. No bottle. Gets paid a pittance — something like five or six quid an hour; has to work all the hours God sends to pick up anything approaching a decent pay packet. Has a girlfriend… some slag who works behind the bar at his local club. Most of the adult male population of Bispham have been through her, apparently.’