Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

A figure appeared over him, blocking out the sunlight.

Something stirred in Hodge — maybe a tinge of fear — and for the first time he felt ever so slightly out of control. So far he had been master of ceremonies, but now, on their ground, he had lost that edge.

‘ Can I help you?’ Hodge asked. His eyes focused on the man.

He was only a small guy, maybe five-six, nothing more. Pretty weedy-looking, wearing a bright shirt and light trousers. His left hand was bandaged.

‘ Be on the ferry to La Gomera at three.’

That was all he said. He turned and walked away, ignoring Hodge’s, ‘But, what…?’

Hodge leaned slowly back and picked up his beer with a dithery hand. He finished it off, but his throat remained constricted and dry.

Henry Christie’s hair had been closely cropped again with a number two attachment to the trimmer. He’d allowed his stubble a couple of days’ growth and now shaved electrically with the shaver head to maintain that level of growth. Designer stubble. He did not like it personally. He preferred a good, wet, close shave each day, but stubble suited the image of Frank Jagger, his alter ego.

Once again, he was back into his legend, rather like slipping into an old raincoat. He was at Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters near to Preston, where he was being briefed by Rupert Davison on the current state of the investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder. Also present, listening in and butting in when appropriate or otherwise, was ACC Fanshaw-Bayley.

Although Headquarters was quite close to his home, Henry had not driven directly to it that afternoon. Instead he had set off early and made his way to a very secret location on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Blackburn. It was a location known only to undercover police officers, the admin staff who directly supported them and a couple of high-ranking officers in the National Crime Squad which covered the North-West of England. Not even FB or Rupert Davison knew where it was. Its location was strictly controlled on a tight need-to-know basis.

It was a large, single-storey unit, surrounded by a high fence, protected by the latest hi-tech equipment, rented ultimately by the NCS. A fictitious company operated from the unit, ostensibly distributing goods in various shapes and sizes throughout the country. At least that’s what all the other companies on the estate were led to believe and anyone watching the place would also believe it too. It looked like a real company, operated like one, but it was only a shell. In reality it was the base where undercover police operatives went to adopt or ditch their legends or pick up or drop off gear and equipment.

Henry had driven all the way from Blackpool in his own car, cautiously adopting anti-surveillance tactics to ensure he wasn’t being followed — which could mean his cover was blown. In the undercover game nothing is ever taken for granted, not if you wanted to collect a pension. And Henry wanted.

In the unit, accessible only by key-code and swipe cards, he picked up Frank Jagger’s pager and mobile phone and the keys for the XJS. He slid into the driver’s seat, enjoying the only perk to being undercover — rarely was money any object. Going for top-class villains meant that cash had to be spent. It was probably the only area in policing where spending had not been drastically reduced over the past few years, though it still remained a consideration in this cost-conscious age.

Then, adopting anti-surveillance tactics again, he made his way to Headquarters Training School.

Henry focused his attention on Davison’s words. They might just save his life.

‘ OK, it stands like this: the murder squad in Manchester have had both of Jacky Lee’s minders in for questioning. Funnily enough they deny any involvement in the dirty deed, and what they say conflicts with your and Terry Briggs’s statements.’

‘ In what way?’ Henry asked.

‘ Thompson and Elphick reckon they did a runner after Lee had been shot, not before, which is what you said. They say they were so frightened, they ran… poor little mites.’

‘ Do any other witnesses contradict what they say, and support our version of events?’

‘ No.’ Davison pulled a pained face. ‘Everybody conflicts with everybody else, at least in some details. You know what it’s like when this sort of thing happens — your mind gets blown. So, because your evidence does not exist, in inverted commas’ — here Davison tweaked the first and second fingers on both hands to indicate inverted commas — ‘we can’t put it to them, as such.’ He was referring to his decision not to use Henry and Terry’s statements, at least not until the undercover operation had paid off, or not, as the case might be.

‘ What do you mean, “as such”?’ Henry wanted to know. He was suspicious of the phrase. It sounded odd to him.

Davison corrected himself. ‘Only that we haven’t used your evidence at all. Now,’ he moved on smoothly, leaving Henry slightly dissatisfied with the remark, ‘it was suggested to Thompson and Elphick that they were behind Lee’s death and that they have gained considerably from it. They denied it, of course, but the word picked up by the murder team is that these guys are now in control of Lee’s operation. It’s a pretty big rumour out on the streets too, but not substantiated yet.’

‘ What about the killer himself? Anything further on him?’

Davison shook his head. ‘No, looks like a pay-per-kill job. In and out, no trace, no leads.’

‘ What about my wire?’ Henry asked, referring to the tape recorder he was wearing at the time of the killing. ‘Anything from that?’

‘ No — too much rustling and banging and distortion.’

‘ The getaway car?’ Henry asked hopefully. There were a lot of negatives.

‘ Not turned up. We reckon it’s been recycled. Loads of scrap yards in the region are being visited, but there’s nothing yet. Either that or it’s in a deep quarry somewhere. I’ll be getting the diving branch to check the best-known dumping places.’

‘ Anything from my description of the driver?’

‘ Nothing concrete, but we do have a suspect. A young lad from a council estate in Salford, suspected of driving at robberies. He’s being looked into…’ Davison paused mid-sentence and quickly said, ‘but very discreetly, of course, as part of the wider picture because your description of him doesn’t exist, does it?’

‘ No, it doesn’t, does it?’ Henry said sourly. Maybe he was prejudging Davison, but he had dropped the question in about the description purposely and got the reply he didn’t want to hear. He breathed in, eyeballing Davison. Not a happy chappie.

‘ I want you to swear to me that our statements have not been used in any way to further this investigation,’ Henry insisted.

The air turned cold as an atmosphere settled on the room.

Davison squirmed, as if his anus had contracted and relaxed.

‘ Because if they have,’ Henry continued, ‘I’m not going back in.’

‘ They haven’t,’ the Superintendent said firmly, but a little too quickly for Henry’s liking.

Colin Hodge should have enjoyed the ninety-minute hydrofoil crossing to La Gomera more than he did. A sense of impending doom about the whole scenario which he himself had engineered blinded his senses. He sat on the upper deck of the Fred Olsen ferry, totally unmoved by the magnificent sight of a school of dolphins accompanying the ship, his guts churning with fear rather than sea-sickness.

The ferry slowed and manoeuvred into San Sebastian, disgorging foot passengers and vehicles on to the harbour side.

Hodge stood by the water’s edge underneath the burning hot sun, looking towards the town, shading his eyes. An old, dusty brown Mercedes drove slowly along the dock towards him, against the flow of traffic leaving the boat.