Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

Surely that could not have happened to any other woman, anywhere, ever?

Danny took a chance and lifted her head off her finger to look around the office through a pair of eyes which refused to open properly. No doubt about it, she should still be in bed, suffering her physical and mental anguish — alone.

The phone on her desk rang. She let it. It stopped eventually.

She had missed the daily murder briefing at eight, not having landed until well after nine, and that had been a miracle, so she had no idea if there had been any overnight developments.

‘ Oh God.’ Her mouth fell open; her bottom lip sagged heavily. She got to her feet slowly, steadying herself on her desk, and walked, one measured, controlled step at a time, out of the office. She ignored the lift. The very thought of it made her queasy. She went up the stairs to the MIR, one tread at a time, pausing on each one to regain equilibrium.

Eventually she made it to the right floor and shuffled into the Incident Room which was very quiet. Everyone who should be, was out investigating. Everyone but her.

She went across to the Receiver’s desk. The Detective Constable assigned to that role raised his eyes.

‘ Anything doing?’ she enquired.

‘ This has just literally arrived by fax — results of the dental identification on your man.’ He held up a sheet of paper. Danny snatched it from his hand and read with glee. At last, a major step forwards.

Except that her excitement was halted quickly by a loud gurgle from her intestines.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and raced out of the room to the ladies’ toilets, where she burst into a cubicle and sank down to her knees over the toilet bowl. Almost before she had finished vomiting, she was scrambling like mad to drag her skirt up, knickers down, to plonk herself down on the loo and empty her bowels.

‘ Oh my God,’ she moaned again just as a stomach cramp creased her guts.

Just her luck. Insult to injury. On the most important day of the investigation for her, she was sick, had diarrhoea and was about to start her period.

Henry Christie locked his hotel-room door, trotted down the stairs and wandered into Manchester city centre. He went into the Arndale Centre, which still bore the scars from the massive IRA bomb attack which had devastated it several years before, found an empty, working phone booth and made a quick call, after which he strolled to McDonald’s where he ordered coffee and an Egg McMuffin which tasted of cardboard. He wolfed down a couple more Advil for his pains, then, after buying a newspaper from W.H. Smiths he hobbled up to the Sticky Fingers restaurant off Deansgate. Here he had another coffee, far more expensive and far nicer than the one at McDonald’s.

Ten minutes later he became aware of a figure hovering next to him. He looked up slowly and his sore face cracked into a grin. ‘Thanks for coming. It’s good to see you.’

The man slid into the seat opposite, shook hands across the table. ‘Good to see you, too, Henry — but I have to say, you look like shite.’

Henry guffawed. ‘Thanks a bunch. Let me order more coffee.’ He folded the newspaper and beckoned a waitress. The coffee arrived quickly.

‘ OK, nice coffee,’ the man said after taking a sip and wiping his top lip with his finger and thumb. ‘What’s this all about, H?’

Henry adjusted his backside, winced and glanced shiftily round the cafe. It was almost empty, being so early. ‘Beast of Burden’ played over the sound system, one of Henry’s favourite Stones tracks. ‘I believe you are the deputy SIO on the investigation into the death of Jacky Lee — and before that you were on the enquiry into the death of a guy that Lee himself was supposed to have iced?’

The man nodded.

‘ Were you, or are you, aware that an undercover officer had been assigned to Jacky Lee before he was killed and that the same U/C officer is now assigned to Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick in the hope of getting evidence of their involvement in Lee’s demise?’

‘ No,’ the man said. His eyebrows knitted together, wondering where this was going.

‘ Well, now you do,’ declared Henry.

A key turned in the lock. The handle revolved and the door opened. Loz stood there looking as grubby and dishevelled as ever. Colin Hodge was sitting on the edge of the bed, not having slept during the night and since his abduction. Loz beckoned to him. ‘Come on.’

He stood up and followed laggardly. His feet were like lumps of lead.

Without speaking, Loz took him down a wide hallway, a sweeping flight of steps to the ground floor, through a set of wide French windows and on to a terracotta terrace beyond which was the garden. A table and chairs were set up on the terrace, protected by a large umbrella. The sun was already hot in the clear sky.

Loz pointed with his bandaged hand to a mobile servery. ‘Help yourself.’

Nervous, but trying to give the impression of confidence, Hodge picked up a plate and examined a selection of breakfast dishes on the hot and cold plates. He chose scrambled eggs and sausage, a large glass of orange and black filtered coffee.

Loz lounged back against the villa wall and watched him, a sneer of contempt quivering on his lips underneath his rather pathetic moustache.

Whilst walking back to the table, Hodge caught sight of two men sitting on the grass by the outer garden wall, a good 100 metres away. They had rifles propped across their knees. Hodge sat down heavily, frightened.

‘ What’s going on? Why am I here?’ Hodge demanded.

Loz shrugged uncaringly. ‘Eat your breakfast. You’ll find out soon enough.’

Hodge poked at his food, pushing it aimlessly around the plate, wishing he was back home, had never thought up this fucking scheme, and was back earning six quid an hour.

He heard voices from inside the villa. Don Smith and Billy Crane appeared from within, looking relaxed and cool.

‘ Colin!’ Smith said loudly. He strode to Hodge and held out his hand to be shaken.

Hodge recoiled. ‘No chance! I want to know what’s going on. I want to know where I am, what I’m doing here and then I want you to take me back to the airport because I’m going home. This whole deal is off. No one treats me like this,’ he snarled, slashing the air with the edge of his hand. ‘No fucker.’

‘ Sit down, Colin,’ Smith said with a patient smile.

‘ Do not screw me around. I want out of here, out of this, now.’

‘ Sit down, Mr Hodge,’ Crane said from behind Smith. ‘Let me explain a few things to you.’

‘ No, you set of twats. Let me explain a few things to you.’ Hodge gestured angrily at them both. ‘This is my show, my deal. I run it, not you couple of wankers. Get me into a car and get me home, because it’s off. Understand? Off!’

‘ No, no, no, no, no, no,’ Crane said patronisingly. ‘You have started a ball rolling. It’s not going to stop until it reaches the bottom of the hill now, Mr Hodge. So sit down and pin your lug-holes back. I have started talking to people, arranging things, promising things — and these people are not like me and my friend here: patient and friendly. They are ruthless and would not hesitate to kill should they be disappointed in you. The fact of the matter is, you are involved now and you cannot pull out. And why would you want to, anyway? All that lovely money…’

It was all lies about the people, but Hodge did not have to know this. He stared from one villain to the other, shaking with rage. Smith nodded reassuringly at him. He was trapped. He sank slowly back into his chair.

‘ Good man,’ Crane said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get myself some breakfast, then we’ll have a chat.’

‘ Me too,’ said Smith.