The Last Big Job (15 page)

The two minders tensed up and exchanged a few words. Thompson
threw down his cigarette and crushed it out, yanked open the
driver’s door of the BMW and dropped into the seat. Gunk just threw
his fag to one side and scurried around the car, skidding in the
gravel, and dived into the front passenger seat.

‘
You see what I see?’ Terry said laconically. He had been
observing the antics of the bodyguards too.

‘
I think we’re being set up here,’ Henry said, standing up
quickly, knocking his boiling tea over.

‘
I want you to make this a very public execution,’ the
Russian’s masters had told him. Being a former soldier and then a
member of the world’s most ruthless intelligence agency, the
KGB
,
he always
carried out orders as instructed, even if he felt they were flawed.
He would really have preferred to do something more subtle and
classy - but if public was how they wanted it, public it would
be.

Since the meeting in the hotel in Fleetwood, he had spent the
next couple of nights in a Travelodge on the outskirts of
Manchester, in the guise of a travelling salesmen. He was
continually in touch, via the mobile, with Thompson, keeping
abreast of the target’s present whereabouts and future plans. When
he was told that the target had arranged business at a transport
cafe, he was interested. Without having visited the place, it
seemed a good location for a hit - next to a fast main road, close
to a motorway junction, with a choice of direction depending on the
circumstances prevailing at the time.

The Russian then reconnoitred the location, grabbing a cup of
tea and using the toilets. Although he remained there a short time
only, his experienced eyes - which had weighed up dozens of
prospective assassination sites before - recorded everything and
came to a conclusion: This would be the place where Jacky Lee would
die.

At a second quick meeting with Thompson, who came alone this
time, the Russian outlined his requirements and questioned Thompson
deeply about the nature of the business Lee would be conducting at
the cafe. Who was he meeting? Was he likely to be armed? Could he
possibly constitute a threat?

When everything was answered to his satisfaction, he
nodded.

It was a goer.

The Russian was assured that Johnny Snowden was the best
getaway driver in the North-West, a big claim for a
twenty-year-old. He had, he was told, six armed robberies to his
credit and a multitude of other less serious crimes. He had outrun
the cops on the four occasions he’d been pursued and was very much
in demand for jobs. The Russian accepted the accolades, but
Snowden’s past history did not interest him. Nor did any small
talk, so when the youngster started chatting, he said, ‘Shut up.
This is real business. Do your job, do it well and your reputation
will be sealed for ever.’

Snowden closed his mouth.

‘
Cock up, however, and you’ll be dead,’ the Russian added in a
friendly way.

They waited for the call in a country lane a short distance
away from the cafe.

When it came, the Russian simply said, ‘Go,’ and pulled on his
favourite garment - his stocking mask. Nothing, he believed, worked
as well when it came to intimidation.

Snowden drove the Ford Mondeo, stolen, on false plates, down
on to the A580 and into the lorry park adjoining the transport
cafe, swinging wide to park behind the cafe.

The Russian saw Thompson and Elphick scrambling into their car
and could not prevent a lip curl at the thought of his masters
operating with such rank amateurs.

Then they were at the rear of the cafe. The Russian picked up
the American Arms Spectre from the footwell and got casually out of
the car. He was faced with two doors. The one on the right led
directly into the kitchen; the one on the left was a fire door
opening on to a short corridor off which the toilets were located,
but which led into the cafe itself.

If Thompson had done his job right, this latter door should be
unlocked.

It was.

‘
Can’t say I’m a happy Teddy here,’ was Terry’s understated
response to the situation. He stood up a fraction more slowly than
Henry.

They moved away from the table and stopped in their tracks at
the sight of Jacky Lee emerging unconcerned from the toilet
corridor. He was zipping up with a little jump and adjusting
himself shamelessly. He brushed the front of his trousers where
there was a little damp patch. Then he looked up out of the cafe
door - which was all windows and a wooden frame - to see his BMW
careering away across the lorry park.

Henry’s mind adjusted to this new development quickly. He had
not expected to see Jacky Lee again because he believed Lee was
part of the set-up. He thought Jacky had done a runner out of the
back. Now there was a very different complexion to this: perhaps it
was Jacky who was being set up?

A puzzled expression crossed Lee’s face. His bushy eyebrows
knitted together over the bridge of his nose. He put his hands on
his hips as a sign of confusion and stepped nearer to the door to
get a better view of the retreating car. ‘What the fuck . . .?’ he
started to say, turning his head to look at Henry.

The timing was impeccable. The Russian slid into the corridor
the moment after Jacky Lee came out of the toilets and made his way
back to the main body of the cafe. He recognised Lee immediately
and that old twist of excitement knotted his lower stomach. Good
luck favours the brave, he thought.

At the end of the corridor, because of the way the light from
the glass door was falling, Lee was framed in a perfect silhouette.
Just like a figure in the firing range - and this little job was
turning out to be as academic as a training session. The Russian
transferred the Spectre to his left hand, deciding to use the
Browning instead which he drew from his waistband. A much better,
more effective, close-quarters weapon.

Henry opened his mouth to say something to Lee, but no words
ever left his mouth.

The sound of gunfire was tremendous. Suddenly the front of
Lee’s chest exploded as though aliens were bursting out. He was
driven forwards by the impact of the bullets, writhing as each one
impacted his back, then exited through his chest. He was thrown
against the door of the cafe - a sheet of normal glass that had
never been replaced in twenty years. He crashed through it, fell,
and a jagged, deadly shard of glass shaped like a stalagmite tore
into his neck, another into his stomach.

The other diners uttered yells of disbelief and fear, diving
for cover behind anything they could find. A waitress screamed and
huddled herself into a ball, covering her head with her hands and a
menu.

Henry counted six shots.

He started to move towards Lee who lay squirming face down in
the glass. His back was a terrible bloody mess. The glass had
deeply gouged his neck. It seemed incredible he could still be
alive. He jerked involuntarily, his head moving back, releasing a
perfect arc of blood from his jugular which rose, then died away to
a splutter.

The Russian stepped out of the corridor, the Spectre waving
warningly in his left hand, the Browning in his right.

Henry stopped, as did Terry.

The Russian shouted something indecipherable, followed quickly
by the words, ‘Keep back.’ He edged towards Lee, eyes locked on
Henry and Terry all the while. He aimed quickly and put two more
bullets into the back of Lee’s head. That stopped him squirming. He
then spun round and ran back down the corridor to the rear
exit.

Henry stepped over to Lee. Trying to ignore the blood, he
lifted Lee’s leather jacket and pulled out the handgun, finding it
to be a two-inch barrelled Smith & Wesson revolver, Detective
Special, a model Henry was familiar with.

It did not take the Brain of Britain to realise that the car
which had driven round the back of the transport cafe as the BMW
was driving away was probably involved in the shooting. Henry
strode out of the door over Lee’s body and set off running along
the front of the cafe where he figured the car was likely to
appear.

As he rounded the end of the building, the Mondeo skidded
away.

Henry saw two people on board. A young lad at the wheel - and
the killer, still wearing the stocking mask. The car swerved on the
gravel surface, the driver adjusting and readjusting, then
regaining full control.

Henry dropped into a combat stance: feet shoulder-width apart,
knees bent and flexible, gun in his right hand supported by his
left, elbows locked, arms forming an isosceles triangle. He aimed
at the driver, his finger curved around the trigger tight enough
for the hammer to roll back. Then he thought, Shit, what am I
doing?

The car hurtled past, out of the lorry park and headed west
along the A580 towards the M6.

Henry thumbed the hammer back into place and lowered the
weapon. He felt slightly sick. He had almost done a stupid thing in
the heat of the moment - fired at someone who presented no threat.
That would have taken a lot of explaining to a coroner’s court. He
returned quickly to the murder scene and found Terry.

‘
Let’s get lost,’ he said to him.

Against all their instincts as cops, but in keeping with their
undercover legends, they legged it.

Chapter Five

One and off, the argument had been raging since their arrests
the previous Sunday. The tiny rooms of Cheryl’s grubby little
council flat in Blackpool often rang to the high-decibel noise of
her exchanging verbals with boyfriend Spencer. But that evening,
drink entered the equation as, sooner rather than later, it was
bound to do so.

Spencer had been out since lunchtime, drinking heavily with
his churns, spending one of the many state benefits he claimed on
the booze and then urinating it away against the porcelain. His
favoured drink was bitter beer. He adored the stuff and managed to
consume nine pints over the course of the afternoon.

When he rolled into Cheryl’s flat just after seven, holding a
lukewarm fish-and-chip takeaway, he reeked of beer. On the journey
from the chip shop to home the wrapping had started to work loose
from around the food. Grease patches had seeped through the paper.
He grabbed another beer from the fridge and plonked himself down on
an easy chair in front of the stolen TV He flipped open the beer,
emptied a large mouthful down his throat and unwrapped his
meal.

His face was creased and mean. There were some grazes on his
cheek where he’d exchanged blows with a ‘mate’ earlier in the
afternoon. Nothing serious.

Cheryl was already in the flat, watching the news. She had
been drinking too, having spent a couple of hours at a friend’s
house, quaffing sweet Martinis. She was feeling pissed and rotten.
Her eyes were red raw, she was tired and in no fit state to sign on
at the police station between 7 p.m. and 8 p.m., as her bail
conditions stipulated. All she wanted to do was sit where she was,
wrapped in a skimpy dressing gown, stare at the TV and continue
boozing until her supply ran dry.

However, the unexpected return of Spencer crashing through the
door, bearing food, was some sort of motivation to do
something.

‘
Give us a chip,’ she demanded.

He leaned forwards protectively over the meal which he’d
spread out on the paper over his lap. ‘No, fuck off.’

‘
Oh, come on, you tight-assed get,’ Cheryl whined. ‘I’m
starving.’ She hoisted herself up from her position deep in the
settee and reached across to help herself from Spencer’s pile of
greasy chips.

He saw her hand approaching and moved his knees just far
enough to keep the food out of her reach. ‘I said fuck off.’ He
took a swig of beer, belched loudly from the pit of his
guts.

‘
Oh, come on,’ she pleaded, getting annoyed. ‘I haven’t had
owt all day. I’m starving.’

He sighed, turned to look at her. ‘Why the fuck should I give
you anything, eh? You stupid bitch. You deserve sod
all.’

‘
Oh, fucking forget it.’ She slumped back, folded her arms and
crossed her legs haughtily.

‘
No, I won’t forget it. I still want to know why you didn’t
tell me about that fucking Charlie. If I’d known, I would’ve kept
my gob shut on the plane, wouldn’t I? Then we could have sold the
gear ourselves, made a few bob out of it. But no, you didn’t have
the bottle to tell me, did ya?’

It was not so much the issue about carrying drugs that was
driving a wedge between them, more the fact that Spencer felt
cheated because he’d lost out on the opportunity to sell the drugs
himself to his pals in Blackpool.

‘
Coulda made a fortune,’ he wittered.

‘
Oh, like, yeah,’ sneered Cheryl, ‘as if they’d really let you
do that. Are you fucking stupid or something, Spencer? You could
never have walked away with those drugs. You’d be dead if you did.
. . I might be dead now, for all I know,’ she concluded
desolately.

‘
Bollocks,’ he spat in disbelief. ‘We could be rollin’ in it
now, but because you never told me, we haven’t even got your pay
packet, have we? An’ how much was that gonna be?’