Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

They walked to the servery and began to select food and drink.

‘ Butter him up again,’ Crane whispered to Smith. Then he turned to Loz, still lounging, and said, ‘Get lost.’

Like an unwanted, unloved dog, Loz slunk away.

‘ Now then Colin,’ Smith said smoothly, sitting down, ‘you’ve got to understand a few facts here.’ Crane sat down opposite and began to eat, not saying a word. ‘You’re right, OK, this is still your show. That will not be taken away from you. We have no wish to make it any different. You’re the guy with all the gen and we are relying on you. You call the shots. You are the man. But by the same token, we’re providing all the tools to do the job and because of the nature of who we are and who else is going to be involved — because make no mistake, Colin, this is going to be a big job and a lot of people will be involved — we have to have a degree of protection. That’s what this is about. Protection from outsiders. OK, you know who I am. I accept that, but there is no need to know anything about this man here, other than he is the organiser of all the resources. We have a lot to lose if the cops, for example, get hold of you, and you start blabbing.’ Smith forked some scrambled egg into his mouth. ‘See where I’m coming from? It’s to protect you and us.’

Hodge breathed in deeply. ‘Yeah, but I’ve been treated like shit and I don’t like it.’

‘ That’s very much down to the way you were brought here, and we can only apologise for the manner in which our associate interpreted our instructions to him. He will be reprimanded.’

Hodge began to soften. The rhetoric, coupled with his own greed, was having a calming effect. He gave a minor shrug. ‘You going to tell me where I am?’

‘ At a house somewhere on Gomera. That’s all you need to know.’

‘ And what am I supposed to call you if you won’t tell me your name?’ he asked of Crane.

Crane considered this. ‘You can call me Matt — Matt Brinks.’

He smiled for the first time.

John Connor was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Greater Manchester Police. Henry had known him for many years, having attended a few national detective training courses with him. It could not be said they were great buddies, but they got along.

Connor leaned on the table. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Henry.’

Henry said sarcastically, ‘You would say that.’

‘ Say what?’ Connor was very confused. ‘I don’t know what the hell you mean.’

Henry peered into Connor’s eyes. ‘He’s briefed you, hasn’t he? To say nothing to me, hasn’t he?’

‘ Henry, are you off your tree? I’ve come here in all good faith as the result of a very mysterious phone call and you lay something on me I just do not understand. Tell me what you’re on about, or else I’m off.’

‘ What has Rupert Davison told you about me?’

‘ Nothing.’

‘ Have you seen and used a statement by a guy called Frank Jagger in your investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder? In particular when interviewing Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick?’

Connor shook his head.

‘ Did you know an undercover operation was going on regarding Jacky Lee?’

‘ No.’

Henry closed his eyes in deep despair and dropped his head.

‘ Henry, what the hell are you talking about here?’

Malcolm Fitch. Date of birth 16.11.1940, Blackburn, Lancashire. Two convictions, 1982, 1984. Both for conspiracy to rob. OIC in both cases Detective Inspector Barney Gillrow, a Lancashire officer seconded to the Regional Crime Squad, based in Bolton. File held at that office.

Having purged her body of everything that was making her unwell, Danny now felt much better. Her head still throbbed unrelentingly, but the stomach pains and cramps had disappeared. She was half human again, but obviously still half dead.

She read the PNC printout again and highlighted the salient points with a pen, thrilled that at last she was looking at the identity of the third dead body from the vehicle inspection pit. She had been on to the Fingerprint Bureau to ask them to double-check the details and they promised a result by the end of the day.

There was no current address for Fitch and it would appear he had not come to police attention since his last conviction fourteen years ago. What she needed to do was start pulling together some up-to-date information on him ASAP. Her gaze settled on the name of the officer who had dealt with Fitch. Perhaps he would be a good starting point. She wondered if she knew Gillrow, but the name didn’t ring any bells with her. The fact that he was a Detective Inspector in 1984 suggested he might not even be in the job now. Could be retired. Might even be dead.

First port of call was the HR department at Headquarters to find the current status of Gillrow.

Five minutes later, her fears were confirmed. Gillrow had retired in 1990 and was now living in Tenerife.

Danny gave her temple a knock with the base of her hand and tried to concentrate, devise a way ahead. She looked at the details of the dead man again and those of the former DJ. HR had provided Danny with an overseas phone number for Gillrow and she thought that starting with him would be as good a place as any. She picked up the phone and dialled the number. It connected remarkably quickly and rang out clearly. No one answered. She hung up after two dozen rings, intending to try later.

Her next avenue was to the Field Intelligence Officer (FIO) at Blackburn, a detective she knew well from her days in the town many years before. This time, even though she was calling internally, the line was nowhere near as clear as the overseas one had appeared to be.

‘ Danny Furness! A rave from the grave! How are you, gal? Haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘ Doing great,’ she said, holding the phone away from her ear. ‘And you?’

They exchanged the requisite pleasantries before Danny posed the question about Fitch, deceased, of that parish.

The FIO interrogated Lancashire Constabulary’s own computerised intelligence system first — but it came up with nothing about Fitch. ‘Doesn’t mean to say we don’t have anything on him. I’ll check the manual files. Hang on…’ The phone was placed on a desk. Danny heard cabinet drawers sliding open, some background chatter, the tapping of a computer keyboard. Eventually the FIO came back on the line. ‘Nothing in the active files, Danny, but there is a file in the “dead section”. An old one… dum de dah… let’s have a looksee

… no, nowt since the mid-eighties. I take it he’s reappeared on the scene?’

‘ In a manner of speaking. Being in the dead section is remarkably apt — he’s the third body in the job over here. Just identified him this morning.’

‘ Oh, interesting… which possibly means he’s been bang at it and we didn’t know. He’s obviously upset someone.’

‘ Upset is a little mild. Really upset, I’d say.’

‘ There is a marker on the file. Any interest to you?’

‘ Go on.’

‘ It’s an RCS reference, now NCS of course. Bolton office. Got a pen? I’ll read it out.’

Danny noted it down, asked the FIO to copy the file and send it immediately to her.

Next she opened the Police Almanac and found the number for the NCS office at Bolton and made a similar request to the one she’d initially made of the FIO. The woman she spoke to took details and promised to ring back within ten minutes, which she did.

‘ I can confirm that we do have a file in that name. Can’t give you any details over the phone, though.’

‘ Why not?’

‘ Policy.’

‘ Can you send me a copy by fax?’

‘ Only if you have the necessary authority.’

‘ Does it make any difference if I tell you the guy is dead and I’m investigating his murder?’