The Last Big Job (35 page)

‘
Wanker,’ hissed Henry.

Gunk Elphick alighted from the vehicle, alone, big, bright,
smiling; volatile and dangerous underneath. ‘OK, guys,’ he called.
He fumbled in his jeans pocket, producing a set of keys, then
opened a side door and went into the building. A few seconds later
the big shutter door ascended noisily. ‘Reverse the van in,’ Gunk
shouted.

Terry manoeuvred the Mercedes into the unit. Gunk leaned
nonchalantly by the control box for the door. Once the engine had
been turned off, he smacked the ‘door close’ button with the palm
of his big right hand.

Henry opened the van doors, displaying all the boxes of whisky
inside. It was one of those cheap mixed brands which he quite liked
to drink in quantity, usually diluted with something else he would
never even have shown to a decent single malt. It was good, pub
spirit.

Gunk and Terry joined him.

‘
Stack ‘em, over there.’ Gunk pointed to a corner of the unit
where there was space amongst other boxes of merchandise. Henry’s
eyes had already roved and seen that the majority of the other gear
was electrical - cheap tape-recorders and some fairly dated-looking
word processors. There was also a selection of do-it-yourself
equipment, including power tools and Black & Decker Workmates.
Henry winced at the thought of DIY.

In one corner of the unit was a good quality multi-gym setup,
probably where Gunk came to work out. A series of weights were
scattered about the floor like huge coins.

It took about forty-five minutes to empty the van. Henry and
Terry ended up beaded in sweat, breathless. Gunk showed no signs of
strain.

‘
Good stuff,’ beamed Gunk, hands on hips, surveying the
piled-up whisky. He smiled at Henry, whose flesh crept. Gunk’s
mobile phone chirped some obscure sequence of notes. He fished it
out of his back pocket and thumbed a button. ‘Yep?’

Gary Thompson did not live very far away from the industrial
unit to which the whisky had been delivered. He inhabited a large,
modern apartment on the outskirts of Rochdale in a soulless
building where neighbours kept themselves to themselves, ensuring
he could live a life of coming and going without raising eyebrows.
He lived there with his - now - thirty-year-old lady friend. They
planned to marry in the near future.

As the whisky was being delivered, Gary was in deep
conversation with Nikolai Drozdov across the dining-room table.
They were discussing the job which had been presented to them by
Billy Crane. Both were eager to get involved. It was easy money,
exciting and dangerous. Just what crime should be.

The first phone call to interrupt them came to Drozdov’s
mobile. It was a short terse message and Drozdov had no time to
respond to it. The call ended abruptly.

‘
A warning from my friends in Russia,’ he said to Gary. ‘Check
out the guy who was with Jacky Lee when he was shot. Could be a
cop. Stress “could be”.’

‘
Frank Jagger,’ Gary said stonily.

Then Thompson’s own mobile rang. It was Billy Crane. He did
not introduce himself, just expected Thompson to recognise the
voice. ‘I know where I’ve seen that guy Jagger before,’ he said
quickly. ‘Twelve years ago. He was a cop. Is he still one, or what?
Think about it.’ The call ended.

Gary repeated Crane’s words to Drozdov. A horrible feeling,
like rats eating away at him, gnawed in the pit of his
guts.

‘
Once is OK,’ Drozdov began his mantra. ‘Twice is
coincidence-’

Thompson’s phone rang again, startling both men. The voice of
a man Gary did not recognise said slowly, just once, ‘Frank Jagger
is a cop. If you do not kill him, he will destroy you.’

‘
Shit! Either this is one big fucking joke, or else we’re in
deep crap.’

‘
Three times,’ Drozdov concluded, ‘means big
trouble.’

Gary nodded. ‘We need to get out of here and go to ground,’ he
said, punching a number into his mobile. ‘Gunk? Is that
you?’

‘
Sure is,’ the big man answered.

‘
Are you still with Frank Jagger?’

‘
Sure am.’

‘
Well, listen fucking good. Don’t do anything stupid, don’t
say anything stupid. He’s a cop. I don’t know about the other one,
but Jagger definitely is. Get out of there without making him
suspicious. Got it? See me down at the Crown and we’ll take it from
there.’

‘
Yep, OK,’ Gunk said brightly as though nothing untoward had
happened. He folded the mouthpiece of his mobile and slid it into
his back pocket. As he had listened to the call he had wandered
away from Henry and Terry. He turned and smiled at them. They
smiled back, unaware of any problem. Gunk’s eyes focused briefly on
Henry. This was just the opportunity he had been waiting
for.

‘
Ready to go?’ Gunk asked Terry. He pressed the button to open
the shutter doors. Terry climbed into the van and started up. He
drew slowly out of the unit, Gunk and Henry walking
alongside.

‘
Frank,’ Gunk said quietly to Henry, ‘that was Gary on the
phone. He wonders if you could spare the time to go and see him -
like now. About those ciggies you offered him.’

Henry tutted. ‘I’ve got other things on. I’d really like to,
but I can’t.’

‘
It’s business - you won’t get a second chance.’

‘
Where is he?’ Henry sighed.

‘
At home. You follow me. I’ll pay you for this lot over a
drink, civilised like.’ He patted his pocket to indicate he was
carrying the whisky money.

‘
OK,’ Henry said reluctantly. Actually it was an offer he
could not refuse - to get into Thompson’s home was a major step
forwards.

‘
You can fuck him off - we don’t need him,’ Gunk said about
Terry.

‘
Sure.’ Henry walked up to Terry who was leaning out of the
van window. Gunk was by Henry’s shoulder, listening, making it
impossible for Henry to say anything discreetly to Terry, even
though he would not have done anyway. ‘Thanks, pal,’ Henry called.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He gave him a thumbs-up.

Terry got the message and pulled away, bouncing across the
ground towards the road.

Henry and Gunk stood side by side, watched the tail-lights
disappear. As the sound of the engine grew fainter, Gunk launched a
ferocious punch into the side of Henry’s skull, sending him
staggering away. He followed it up by another equally hard drive in
much the same place. Henry’s legs gave up the ghost and before he
even knew he’d been hit, he was unconscious on the
ground.

She was smoking too much, she knew. However, a meal like the
one she had just eaten needed to be complemented with at least two
cigarettes and a Tia Maria to make her feel warm and mellow. She
lit up and inhaled deeply. The perfect end, Danny thought happily.
If only she was now going to be seduced by some slick Spanish
millionaire, her evening would have been complete.

As it was, she would be alone.

She called for the bill and the highly attentive waiter
scurried to the request. She tipped him generously and bade him a
sweet goodnight. He looked desolate and lovelorn as he watched her
walking away from the restaurant, wringing a towel in his
hands.

At the next-but-one restaurant along, Loz finished his San
Miguel and tossed a few coins on to the table, began to tail
Danny.

She sauntered down on to the promenade and stood by the edge
of the beach where she lit yet another cigarette and gazed at the
intricately constructed sand sculptures which had been created
during the day by artistic beach bums. The sky above was
phenomenally clear. The stars sparkled like they’d just been
polished. Danny hugged herself. The troubles of her recent past
seemed far away in this environment. The memory of Jack Sands was
nebulous and fading. Her feelings for Henry Christie had been
firmly dealt with, she believed. She would not touch another
married man with a barge pole, she promised herself. Too dangerous
and complicated by half, and there were never any winners. What
kind of appealed to her was a divorce, all the angst of separation
put behind him, with maybe a couple of kids - eight, nine years
old, say - who needed a mother. That would be good: an instant
family.

Something dawned on her. Maybe this was the missing link in
her life. God, what a strange sensation. . . but she suddenly
wanted to be a mother.

Her legs went weak. Married and a mother, that’s what I
want.

Christ, she thought fearfully. Am I cracking up? Is this
really my brain in my head? Is this really my own feeling in the
pit of my stomach?

She had totally shocked herself.

The jolt did not last for long.

Loz, who had been shadowing her, moved in - aware that other
people were about, but knowing that if he was quick, he could get
away with it. He strode up behind Danny. His good hand went between
her legs and grabbed her crotch, squeezing tightly. His bandaged
arm wrapped around her throat and pulled her backwards into him so
that his rough, unshaven cheek was next to her ear.

She instantly smelled his breath and sweat and the pungent
odour from his hand.

‘
You shouldn’t wear such short skirts,’ Loz growled in her
ear. He squeezed tighter between her legs.

Danny struggled.

‘
No fucking chance.’ Loz’s grip grew stronger. He bundled her
down on to the beach, a hand wrapped around her face to prevent her
screaming. The smell made her gag. He withdrew his hand from her
sex and punched her short, sharp and hard in the lower back. Danny
tried a back-jab, but Loz stepped out of range and laughed. He
propelled her towards a row of fishing boats drawn up on the sand
by the edge of the sea, dark and unlit, deep black shadow cast
between them.

The half-bucket of water was hurled into his face brought him
round, though he remained totally disorientated. He shook his head,
which, at first, he thought was face down on a hard floor, but the
rest of his body didn’t seem to link in with that idea. And his
arms. He could not move his arms. They were trapped in something
like a vice. He swooned again, fading out of consciousness. Another
dash of cold water cascaded over him, reviving him, jogging his
memory.

Terry had driven away and Gunk had smashed him on the side of
the head with a fist like a brick. Then there was nothing until
this.

Henry’s eyes fluttered open. He was still unable to decide
what was going on. He tried to move, to pull himself up. He moved
his throbbing head round, muttering, ‘What’s going. . .?’ and only
then did it fall into place. He was bent over a Black & Decker
Workmate. His arms had been pushed through the jaws which had then
been tightened up. His wrists were handcuffed together by twine,
which was also wrapped around the cross member which joined the
legs of the workmate. The whole thing was weighted down with some
of the heavy circular weights from the multi-gym making it
virtually immovable.

Henry moved his head round again. Gunk stepped into his line
of sight, wearing a stupid grin of triumph.

‘
Hiya, Frank - or whatever your name is.’

‘
What’s going on, Gunk? What’s this for?’

Gunk held up a silencing finger. ‘Shut up, Frank. I know
you’re a cop.’

‘
What the hell are you talking about? We’ve been through all
this shit before. I am not a cop, so let me go.’

Gunk shook his head. ‘I know you’re a cop. An undercover cop.
I always knew, always suspected. Just something about you that
never quite rang true for me. Intuition, I suppose you’d call it.
Me in touch with my feminine side.’

‘
You’re wrong, Gunk. Now let me go.’

‘
I hate being done over by anybody, but when a cop does it,
I’m really fucking annoyed.’ He leaned into Henry’s face. ‘So you
know what? I’m going to make you suffer.’ He reached underneath
Henry and found his belt buckle which he started to unfasten. All
the while he retained eye-contact. ‘I, on the other hand, will
enjoy this. Know what I mean?’

Henry understood exactly. Gunk, who had previously indicated
how much he would like to bugger Henry was now going to do just
that. Henry started to struggle violently, all sorts of horrendous
images flying through his mind. He strained against the twine which
fastened his wrists.

A gun appeared in Gunk’s hand. He shoved it into Henry’s cheek
and roughly screwed the muzzle into Henry’s mouth, cracking against
teeth. Henry stopped moving instantly. His eyes were wide open in
fear. Gunk was breathing heavily.

‘
Now then, Frank, if that’s what you want to be called, the
choice you have is very simple. Honestly. Stop struggling and let
this thing take its natural course like two grown men and I won’t
be rough with you. I mean, I will fuck you good and proper, that
definitely will happen. Alternatively you can have a bullet in your
mouth now. Your choice, pal. Death or rape.’ Gunk’s voice dropped
to a whisper. ‘I know which I’d choose.’

Loz threw Danny down on to the sand between two fishing boats,
hardly fifty yards away from the promenade.