‘ Mr Lee’s expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’
The pretty woman looked up and Henry acknowledged her by lifting up his sunglasses and giving her a quick wink and a smile. She pressed a button. The lift doors to her right hissed open. ‘Top floor,’ she said sweetly, returning the smile.
‘ Cheers,’ said Henry, repositioning the sunglasses with his forefinger.
He entered the lift and pressed the required button. The doors slid to quietly. Even though he was alone, Henry did nothing other than to lounge against the side of the lift, — fold the sunglasses into his jacket pocket, yawn and rub the stubble on his chin. Frank Jagger yawned a lot and tended not to shave. Two of his character traits.
Henry was also aware there was a CCTV camera installed in the top corner of the lift and that — most probably — his progress through the building was being monitored by Lee or his men. Henry could not afford to let anything slip at any time, or under any circumstances. It all had to be perfect. He was dying to scratch the small of his back where the wire was strapped on with sticky tape.
The Russian made good progress after leaving Warwick. He skirted around Birmingham to join the M6 with surprisingly little delay and kept travelling north, up into Lancashire, remaining constantly vigilant.
His next stop was at Lancaster motorway services, northbound, at Forton. Here he employed the same checking procedure as at Warwick, and once again saw no one, heard nothing to rouse his suspicion. He used the toilets, had a quick cup of tea and a sandwich and returned to his car. Deciding it was about time he inspected his hardware, he opened the boot and pulled back the spare wheel cover. Inside the hub of the wheel was a plastic package bound by elastic bands. The Russian removed the package, re-covered the spare and slammed the boot shut.
Without opening the package, he slid it underneath the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, after refuelling — cash only — he was back on the motorway, coming off at the next junction 33 — where he joined the A6, back-tracked a couple of miles south towards Garstang and found a quiet lay-by.
Here he unwrapped the package and peered inside. He was reassured to see he had been provided with what he had requested. Firstly, the American Arms Spectre auto loading pistol, 9mm, thirty-shot magazine capacity with one extra in the chamber; six-inch barrel, 72 oz in weight, adjustable sights with a blue finish. Secondly a Browning BDM pistol, 9mm, capacity of fifteen plus one, with a 4.73-inch barrel, adjustable sights and, again, a blue finish. Spare magazines were also included. He folded the package and replaced it under the seat.
Jacky Lee’s apartment was bright and beige, spotless and huge, typical of the kind of place inhabited by wealthy criminals without any specific taste in furniture, fittings, or art. Its immense size struck Henry as soon as he stepped out of the lift. It was his first time up here and he was impressed. In the dim, distant past, Henry had been to Lee’s family home, a farmhouse in the Northumbrian countryside which Jacky shared with his wife and kids.
At this moment, though, Lee was obviously not thinking too deeply about his wife. He was sitting at a smoked-glass-topped dining table dressed in a very short towelling robe which rode up to the top of his thighs. Henry hoped he was wearing underpants. Lee was stuffing a croissant into his mouth. Directly opposite him sat a stunning-looking woman with a wide, oval face, attired in an equally revealing robe sagging open at her chest, showing a deep cleavage. Henry thought she would have looked wonderful in just about anything.
‘ Hey, Frank, you cunt!’ Lee shouted through his mouthful. ‘Get in here.’ He flapped his fingers at a spare chair at the table.
Henry slid off his jacket and tossed it over a coffee-table. He walked across the apartment, noting the view of the canal basin was tremendous now that it had been developed. He plonked himself confidently down on the chair and picked up a cup which he reckoned to wipe clean with his fingers. He reached for the coffee in a jug on a hot plate.
Lee wiped his mouth with a napkin.
‘ Mornin’ Jacky,’ Henry said. It was actually a minute after noon. He nodded at the woman and was caught briefly — stunningly — by the flash of her wonderful wide brown eyes. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was already searingly jealous of Jacky Lee.
‘ This is Natasha,’ Lee said. He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘And if you even think of laying a finger on her, you’ll have to answer to me.’ He laughed coldly.
‘ The thought would never even enter my head,’ Henry reassured him, feeling uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t there. However, as Frank Jagger, he didn’t give a shit. Women were merely appendages in Jagger’s world. Something to be used and discarded. Something to have hanging from your arm. The prettier and dumber the better — but he guessed that Natasha was far from dumb.
Henry took a drink of coffee, his eyes playing over the rim of the big breakfast cup at Lee and his lady friend, wondering how he had allowed himself to be dragged into this game again.
He had only himself to blame. Two and a half months earlier he had been operating as a Divisionally based Detective Inspector in charge of reactive CID operations at Blackpool. He was a busy man. Sorting out the messy suicide of fellow DI Jack Sands as well as the aftermath of the murder of a paedophile, together with the escape from custody of a dangerous child murderer called Louis Vernon Trent who had consistently outmanoeuvred the police in their efforts to recapture him. And lots of other things. It was all fairly easy, undemanding work for a detective of his calibre, well within his capabilities.
Then, out of the blue, he got a call to attend Headquarters to see the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. It had actually been Fanshaw-Bayley, known in short as FB, who had summoned him personally by phone. Cagey and obtuse as ever, he had refused to tell Henry what he wanted to see him for. Just: ‘Get your arse across here now.’ FB was fondly regarded for his way with words.
Annoyed, frustrated — and not a little worried — Henry had done as bid. Summonses to parade on at HQ come few and far between. Usually they are for promotion or bollocking. Henry knew he was not going to be promoted… and as he drove the twenty or so miles from Blackpool to Headquarters, just to the south of Preston, his heart was beating faster than it should have done. His mind kept asking, ‘What have you done this time, Henry?’
He was spirited quickly through FB’s secretary’s office into FB’s own palatial one, recently redecorated, overlooking the rugby pitch. FB was sitting behind his desk, wallowing in his new leather swivel chair. This was the man who, over the years, had caused Henry some grief and heartache. Henry did not like him at all, but suspected FB quite liked him in a perverted sort of way, although he did not often show it and usually treated Henry like shite.
On the other side of the desk was another man. Henry did not recognise him immediately.
‘ Henry, what the fuck took you so long?’ FB said jovially and bounced up to his feet. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Davison from Greater Manchester Police.’
Henry shook the man’s hand, eyeing him uncertainly. Somewhere in the depths of his mind there was a vague tinge of familiarity.
‘ Used to be one of us until he deserted ship,’ FB said.
‘ Ahh.’ Henry released Davison’s hand. ‘I thought I recognised the face,’ he lied whitely. Actually he still had not placed him.
‘ Our paths have crossed,’ Davison said worryingly.
‘ Tea? Coffee?’ FB asked Henry.
‘ Tea, please.’
FB pointed towards a spare chair. ‘Pull it up, sit down.’ He intercommed his secretary and ordered the beverages, sat down and leaned back, interlocking his fingers across his chest. He beamed at Henry. ‘Isn’t this nice?’