Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

When Danny had suggested the idea of a trip to Tenerife, she had expected out-and-out resistance. However, as the investigation was getting nowhere fast, the SIO in charge was more than happy to authorise the journey even though two other detectives had just returned from the island having drawn a blank with the drug-connection theory to the triple murder.

After Danny finally got her hands on the RCS file on Fitch, it was obvious that Gillrow was his handler. The file was extremely sparse, with few entries of any real note. Danny sniggered when she read it because these days, informant handling at any level was strictly controlled and very bureaucratic. Logs were kept of every meeting, all monetary transactions were scrupulously recorded and verified and nothing was left to chance.

Gillrow had been operating in the days of laxity when procedures were loose and open to all kinds of corruption. Exactly the reasons why things had needed to be tightened up. Too many cops were splitting money with their snouts, too many were getting involved in sexual relationships with them, and too many jobs were going bandit, either before or at court.

After getting the file, Danny had then reached Gillrow by phone. It had been a stilted conversation. He seemed reluctant to talk, stated his memory was not what it once was and he could hardly even recall the name Fitch. Danny had started the phone call believing it would be enough, but the strange vibes she picked up alerted her instinct and made her decide that a face-to-face interview would be more appropriate.

Which is how she found herself crammed on to a holiday charter flight, suffering severe earache, swallowing like mad, sucking a boiled sweet, and descending gradually towards Tenerife.

The seat-belt sign came on — and the No Smoking one. This latter one made her snort. Some joke. The whole flight had been a non-smoker, which was not good. Four hours without a drag was purgatory for her. She was longing for the inside of the terminal building where she would put four cigarettes in her mouth, light them all and inhale a quadruple lungful of smoke.

To fight the feeling, Danny tried to relax and think some more about ex-DI Gillrow. Before flying out she had made a quick visit to the HR department at Headquarters and requested to see Gillrow’s personal file. It had been retrieved from a dusty storeroom, where old personal files are laid to rest.

She did not learn a great deal about the man. He had been a career detective, moving from local CID work to the RCS as it was then, and bouncing between the two as he rose through the ranks. He had retired at the age of fifty-two with thirty-three years’ service behind him and not a blemish on his record. Mr Perfect. A decent, hard-working individual, now enjoying a long, and happy retirement on an island in the sun, as many police officers often did. He was not quite sixty and had a lot more living to do. According to the file he lived in Tenerife with his second wife. He had been married to her for nineteen years. Yes, a good all-round egg… and yet Danny shuddered ever so slightly. The guardedness of the phone call — something was just not quite right, but she didn’t know what. Only by talking to him face to face, watching his reactions, his body language, his eyes, would she be satisfied.

The undercarriage whined down with a creak and a groan. Final descent.

Danny saw road lights below her from the window. She tightened her seat belt, then glanced at her watch — 9.30 p.m. She made some mental calculations: up to an hour tops to get through the airport, collect luggage and pick up the pre-ordered hire car; twenty minutes to Los Cristianos — a resort she knew well from previous holidays — book into the hotel, quick shower, change into holiday clothes, then down to the harbour for a meal and a bottle of wine in a restaurant.

She tried unsuccessfully to wipe the grin off her face.

It was a dirty job, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…

It was an awfully civilised occasion by any standards. A thirtieth birthday party, the big three-zero.

The entire restaurant had been hired for it — at a very discounted price, obviously. A marquee had been erected in the gardens, with a dance-floor and live music from Queen and Beatles tribute bands. The food, wine and entertainment were all terrific and free to everyone who had been invited.

Henry Christie did not want to be there.

It was not in his plans to be invited to Gary Thompson’s girlfriend’s birthday bash. But such was the way of undercover operations. He had intended that the first down payment of the money for the stolen whisky should have taken place in an environment which he controlled. The last-minute party invitation had thrown him off kilter and he could not really refuse it. Gary had said he wanted to settle things at the party and for Henry to have said no would have probably aroused suspicion.

At least it meant he was in the bloke’s good books and maybe there would be some opportunity to get Gary or Gunk to start blabbing whilst under the influence of drink.

Henry, wired up, walked into the marquee entrance and had a listen to the Freddie Mercury lookalike for a few minutes, quite impressed.

Whilst lounging there and being treated to a rousing rendition of ‘Hammer to Fall’, Henry’s eyes roved across the assorted assemblage. Then he did a double-take and tensed up as he recognised someone in the crowd — a guy called Fallon, a Manchester crim, low-level drug dealer, who Henry had surveilled and locked up a few years before when he’d been on the squad. Henry moved away from the marquee, quickly putting his drink to his mouth to cover some of his face. This was one of those exact reasons why undercover cops do not work near home. The possibility of being blown out, accidentally or otherwise, was very real and dangerous.

And if Fallon was here, who else could be?

What he needed to do was conduct his business with Thompson, make his excuses and then a sharp exit.

He tried to stroll nonchalantly away from the tent whilst holding his glass up to his cheek, pretending to scratch the corner of his eyes. He had gone about ten yards towards the restaurant when a big, heavy arm wrapped around his shoulders. Gunk Elphick stuck his face into Henry’s, overpowering the detective’s sense of smell with a combination of booze and a particularly repugnant aftershave. The fusion stung Henry’s eyeballs, made him blink rapidly.

‘ Frank, how you doing, pal?’ slurred Gunk, oiled to a very high viscosity.

‘ I’m fine, considering.’

Gunk stepped back, affronted. ‘You still moanin’ about me duffin’ you up?’

‘ Duffing isn’t the word I would choose. Hammering the shite out of, is the phrase. And yes, I am sore.’

‘ Y’soft twat.’ Gunk punched him hard on the shoulder. ‘Nowt personal.’

‘ So I’ve been told.’

Gunk’s face warped into a ‘Don’t give a monkey’s anyway’ sort of look. ‘What do you think about the do?’ He swept his arm in an all-encompassing gesture, taking in the whole of the party.

‘ Big do. Nice.’ Henry nodded appreciatively.

‘ Yeah, you’re right — effin’ big do.’ Gunk gave Henry a salacious wink for some unfathomable reason. ‘We’ve invited a lot of top boys to this, both as a sign of friendship and also to put ‘em on notice that me and Gazzer’ve arrived. To let ‘em know where the power is going to be in the future. A kind of friendly poke in the ribs to our competitors, sorta.’ Gunk’s big index finger rocketed towards Henry’s chest to reinforce the point. Henry caught it in his fist and slowed it down before it broke his sternum. The finger was as podgy as a semi-erect cock. Henry let it go quickly.

Gunk leaned into Henry again. The drink was making him voluble. ‘We’re going to be big, me and Gazzer,’ he breathed. ‘Got big plans