Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

Gunk signalled Henry with a hand gesture and walked down the hall, turning without knocking into the third door along. Henry followed nonchalantly.

There was a small office behind the door containing a desk and chair. Behind the desk was another door which Gunk shouldered his way through, Henry at his heels.

The inner office was much bigger. Henry’s eyes quickly circumnavigated the room. There was a large, leather-topped mahogany desk with executive swivel chair; on the desktop was a blotter and a laptop. Behind the desk was a large window which, if Henry’s geography was correct, looked out over Cross Street. To one side of the desk were two massive Chesterfield settees in red leather — a style of furniture that never appealed to Henry, who was a G-plan man at heart. The Chesterfields faced each other square on, separated by a glass-topped coffee table. Up against another wall was a filing cabinet and on another were a couple of TV monitors, one which had a screen split into half a dozen images, showing scenes from within the night club below, transmitted from CCTV cameras dotted strategically around the club.

Henry’s eyes returned to the Chesterfields. On one sat Gary Thompson; on the other sat a mean, sleek-looking individual, but rather pasty-faced. He reminded Henry of the 1970’s version of Bryan Ferry.

‘ Hey, Frankie baby,’ Thompson boomed loudly, ‘how you doing?’

‘ I’m doing good,’ Henry nodded.

Less than a second later, Henry was not doing good at all.

Gunk Elphick, who had entered the room ahead of Henry — a good, psychological manoeuvre designed to put Henry subconsciously at ease — spun round unexpectedly, at a speed Henry could not have anticipated, and hit him hard on the side of the head. Henry flew across the carpet on to the sharp edge of a filing cabinet. For a moment he saw stars and moons, and it felt like his brain had become detached from its moorings. He did not have any time to consider this, because Gunk danced across the room after him and followed up the first punch with one to the pit of the stomach, and then another to the opposite side of Henry’s head.

Before Henry could sink into disorientated oblivion, Gunk stepped in real close, head-butted the bridge of the detective’s nose and jabbed his right knee into Henry’s testicles. Henry pitched sideways and slithered down the wall, doubled up with the terrible shocking pain roasting up from his balls, yet with both hands cupped over his face, stemming the blood flow from his nostrils.

Gunk was ruthless.

If Henry thought that was the end of the matter, he was wrong. Gunk’s steel-toe-capped Doc Martens booted him several times in the ribs as he lay squirming in agony. Then he lifted Henry on to his back, grabbed the front of his bloodstained jumper and hauled him to his feet.

Henry reeled, uttering gibberish, swearwords and blasphemy.

Gunk dragged him across the room towards the desk, then forced him down on to his knees in a praying position and rammed the side of Henry’s face into the desktop. Gunk stood behind him, knees jammed into his shoulder-blades, pressing Henry’s chest against the desk and skewering his features whilst blood and snot flowed from his nose, mixing with saliva dribbling from his twisted mouth.

Gunk put his mouth to Henry’s ear. ‘Right, you cunt,’ he said. Then he reached down and pulled up Henry’s jumper, running his harsh hands over Henry’s chest, stomach and back.

‘ Nothing there, Gazzer,’ Gunk said to Thompson.

‘ Strip the fucker,’ Thompson shouted. He had been watching the beating from the comfort of the Chesterfield, legs crossed, relaxed.

‘ On your fucking feet,’ Gunk growled. He heaved Henry up. ‘Come on, get up.’

‘ What… Why…?’ Henry spluttered, hardly able to balance.

‘ Now you can do this hard or easy,’ Gunk explained. ‘Get your clothes off.’

‘ But… why?’

Gunk slammed an open hand across Henry’s head, lifting the detective off his feet, reeling him round full circle and depositing him in a heap on the floor. Henry regained his hands and knees, shaking his head, aware of blood dripping on the carpet.

Gunk leaned over. ‘Take your kit off, or I’ll kill you now.’

Henry rocked back on to his haunches and eased the V-neck jumper over his head, dropping it on to the floor. He wore nothing underneath it. He struggled to his feet, stage by stage, unbuckled his belt, waistband, and unzipped his chinos. He let them drop to his ankle. He swayed, only just able to remain standing.

‘ Skids, too,’ Gunk screamed.

Henry pulled his underpants down, left them at his ankles. Gunk circled him, his eyes focused on Henry’s genitals and backside.

Henry panted, racked with pain, one hand at his nose, thanking God he had decided to make this first meeting without a wire.

‘ He’s clean,’ Gunk announced, stepped into Henry and grabbed his sore balls, squeezing. ‘Aren’t you, babe?’

There was some conversation, but not a lot. Rik told Danny a few things about his job on Conference Planning which simply passed over her head. There was a considerable amount of alcohol imbibed between them a lot of dancing done, culminating in several slow numbers leading up to the 2 a.m. finish. It was during these songs that Danny made her intentions clearly and unequivocally known to Rik Dean, if not by word of mouth, by actions.

They actually started the first slow song standing slightly apart. Rik’s hands rested on Danny’s shapely hips. Her arms were snaked around his neck. By the end of that song, other than being completely naked, they could not have got closer together. They kissed greedily, wetly. Their hands slithered up and down each other’s spine and backside. Danny gasped hotly on the first occasion both her hands moulded themselves on to Rik’s bum. It was taut and hard, just as she had imagined, but not as solid as his erection which Danny moved against as they rotated with each other. She took a few less than discreet opportunities to sneak a hand around to the front of his trousers and squeeze, making him groan like a beast.

‘ Let’s go,’ Danny whispered hoarsely, sucking his ear. ‘My place.’

‘ Yeah, c’mon.’

He virtually dragged her off the dance-floor past a table of jeering, boorish and very irate Murder Squad detectives.

Danny was completely swept up by the moment. There was nothing on her mind but the prospect of screwing Rik Dean, the sooner the better. She needed the release of orgasm, multiple ones if possible.

With Gunk’s willing assistance, the naked Henry Christie — trousers and shreddies around his ankle — had reassumed the kneeling position by the desk. Gunk’s knees were pressed into his back, Henry’s hands were jammed down in front of himself and his head was again being squashed into the desktop by Gunk.

Thompson sat on the office chair, reclining it. He swung his heels up on to the edge of the desk. Henry’s leather coat was in his hands and he was rooting through the pockets. He found a wallet which he turned upside down and emptied on his lap. He picked up and scrutinised everything. It all related to Frank Jagger. Henry had no concerns from that angle.

‘ OK, Frank,’ Thompson said, brushing the wallet contents off his legs on to the floor, and dropping the leather coat. ‘Bet you’re wondering what this is about?’

‘ You could thay thasht,’ Henry responded through his distorted mouth.

‘ As you are fully aware, our boss Jacky Lee got taken out the other day by a renegade gunman. Not a nice thing to happen at all. Problem is, that both me and Gunk got hauled in by the bizzies — which was only to be expected, I suppose. They’ve got to be seen to be doing something and I accept that. Reluctantly, of course,’ he said generously. ‘The fact is, though, they really, really, really thought we had something to do with the job. Like we set the whole thing up, or something.’ He tittered at Gunk, who chuckled back. ‘I can half understand their point of view… totally unfounded though it was.’