Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

Danny spent the day reading everything that had accumulated from the murders of Cheryl, Spencer and the unidentified male. Even in such a short space of time, masses of material — intelligence, evidence and dross — had accumulated. She studied it all carefully in the hope that her detective’s mind would find the missing link, or hit on that one vital piece of information everyone else had missed, slot everything together and come up with some answers.

It did not happen.

Although she acknowledged her ‘action’ was probably a key to the whole thing, the most likely avenue for a result in the short term was through the garage owner, Peter Maynard. Three people don’t just get murdered in your business premises without you knowing something about it.

In interview he had admitted nothing and in the end he was released on police bail.

He was now under covert surveillance and permission was being sought from the appropriate authority to tap his phones at home and work. Sooner or later he would let something slip. At least, that was the hope.

Most resources were concentrating on him, others were trying to trace the source of the drugs that Cheryl had been carrying.

Danny closed the big fat ring-binder and leaned her elbows on it, cradling her face. It was almost nine o’clock, Monday evening, four days into the enquiry. In a few minutes there would be a flood of officers in the Incident Room for the evening debrief. Each one would have to report on progress made or, in Danny’s case, progress not made. After that, most of them would probably go for a drink.

Danny decided she would be going straight home and hitting the sack.

That night, as Henry Christie cruised through the streets of Manchester in the firm’s Jaguar XJS, eventually finding a parking spot, the city was heaving with bodies. It was a cold night, but that did not stop most of the young men on the prowl from dressing in jeans and skimpy T-shirts or vests. The women were no more sensible; their skirts were nothing more than wide belts, displaying a mixed variety of legs and ankles, and their tops were paper-thin and appeared to be several sizes too small for their chests.

Henry, with his leather jacket slung casually over his shoulder, did not look too much out of place. He might have felt like the oldest swinger in town, but in the persona of Frank Jagger he swaggered confidently amongst the crowds, smiling at the women, scowling dangerously at the lads who were happy to avoid this older, tough-looking guy, giving him a wide berth.

Music, occasionally muted, blaring mostly, emanated from the licensed premises, betraying their characters: heavy rock, disco, jungle or pop. The smell of greasy fast food invaded Henry’s nostrils as well as the acrid scent of grass.

Everyone was ecstatic. There was not the ever-present lurking atmosphere of violence that was so apparent in other big cities. People were out here to enjoy themselves, though maybe the highly visible cops played their part too.

Henry threaded his way through the city centre until he arrived at the front door of ‘Angel’s Silver’ off Cross Street. It was close to midnight and a long queue waited patiently for admission into the night club. Some people had a horrendously long wait ahead of them as the doormen were allowing only a couple or three people in at a time. Henry knew this was a good club and had he been twenty-odd years younger, he would have meekly joined the queue.

Frank Jagger did not have the time to hang around.

He sauntered down the line, aware of eyes following him, mostly angry ones because they could sense he was about to jump the whole lot of them and walk straight in. He ignored the looks, keeping a thin smile on his face.

When he reached the front, he waited patiently as the doors were opened and a giggling couple admitted. The doormen turned out towards the queue, both dressed in black trousers and dark red T-shirts, probably to hide the bloodstains, Henry thought.

They looked formidable. Non-nonsense bastards. They sneered down their noses at Henry, arms folded across their chests, aware that they could make or break people’s nights out.

‘ What?’ one said. He had a shaved head, goatee beard, earrings and forearms as thick as car tyres, plastered with very tasteful tattoos. He did not wait for an answer from Henry. ‘The back of the queue is that way.’ He raised a forefinger. ‘So fuck off and find it. There’s no favours here, pal,’

Henry moved in close to him. The guy tensed up, expecting violence. ‘I’m here to see Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick. They’re expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’

The bouncer deflated and opened the door with a quiet, ‘Sorry.’

Henry entered the club, accompanied by cat-calls from the patient queue. He gave them a middle-finger salute.

In the steamy seaside resort of Blackpool, someone else was entering a night club at exactly the same time as Henry.

Danny Furness had attended the evening debrief and listened intently as investigating officers brought the SIO team up-to-date with progress so far. In a nutshell there had been none. Although Danny knew she should not have been pleased by the news, in a wicked sort of way she was glad everyone else was getting nowhere. Just like her.

She had been very tired and had made a commitment to herself that she would go straight home to bed.

Her willpower was tremendous.

At the very moment one of her fellow detectives asked her if she wished to join him and a few others for a bevy in a local pub, her resolve to go home came down faster than the Berlin Wall. She said yes. All of a sudden her taste buds were demanding that a cool Stella Artois and lime should be showered over them. Once that image was fixed, there was no turning back for Danny.

It was about time she went out with a group of people from work, she justified to herself. Up to now, since Jack had killed himself, she had only been out with close friends on sour, introverted nights, often ending in tears. She had never let her hair down, hiked up her skirt and had a good laugh.

Danny needed a bit of a bender. She had to move on, stop thinking about the past, stop moping about Henry Christie, get on with her life, get it lived.

And the way to kicks tart it might just be a couple of drinks, a few ciggies, and a belly laugh or two at some inappropriate jokes.

Even before leaving the police station, her intended alcoholic intake had doubled. Still, what was the harm? A couple or three halves

… she could easily drive home on that. Well under the limit. No problem.

The Murder Squad were in good fettle. Despite their lack of progress they were all buoyant and cheerful. It was early days, there were so many things to go on and all were confident of a quick result. And a good team-building session was exactly what was needed to keep the momentum going — that and the fact that for at least another week, overtime was not an issue.

By the time Danny had consumed her fourth half-lager, moved on to dry white wine and soda and fired up her sixth cigarette on the trot, the determination to keep consumption down had disappeared into the smoky atmosphere. She was well into the dynamics of the session, which looked like being a good one and she didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone or anything other than getting ‘rat-arsed’, going to a club for a dance and then getting a mouth-charring Vindaloo.

Which is why she found herself, surrounded by half a dozen male detectives, heaving her way to the front of a queue outside a night club in the resort, ignoring shouts from the people who were waiting, huddled against a fierce biting wind swirling in from the sea and being allowed in on the production of what is affectionately referred to as the ‘International Club Card’ — otherwise known as a warrant card.