Cheryl stood next to him, head bowed, terrified: not of the judicial consequences Gail would have been a godsend) but of the other, more sinister form of retribution she might have to face.
Their cases — bail hearings only — were dealt with swiftly. Both were remanded on bail to reappear before the court in three weeks’ time. Because of the additional charges levelled against Cheryl, extra conditions were imposed on her: her passport was confiscated and she was ordered to report twice daily to Blackpool police station and ‘sign on’.
The pair shuffled out of the court in silence and mooched moodily towards the town centre on their release. Neither noticed the man who was following them.
The two men were huddled by the room door, concentrating hard, paying no attention to what was going on around them. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows everywhere, enabling the Russian to tread with silence, unseen, towards them. His martial arts skills seemed to make him invisible.
He was on the men before they knew he was there. He chopped the neck of the first one, landing the hand-edge blow underneath the ear. The man crumbled like a bad wall.
The second man uttered something incomprehensible, but all he saw was the blur of something coming towards him in the half-light, felt a blinding crash of excruciating pain in his forehead and then the blackness of unconsciousness.
They awoke within seconds of each other, lying side by side on the double bed in the Russian’s hotel room. Their wrists were secured behind their backs and the position in which they found themselves was extremely painful and uncomfortable with little room to even wriggle.
The Russian had drawn the dressing-table chair up to the bed. He was sitting on it, legs crossed, leaning forwards with an elbow on his knee. Dangling loosely in his right hand was the Browning automatic; the weapon, combined with the stocking mask pulled tight over his face, distorting his features, made for a truly terrifying sight.
‘ So, you wake up?’ he observed, purposely adopting a thick, stereotypical Russian accent, reminiscent of James Bond films.
The first man, named Gary Thompson, the one who should have come alone, focused his eyes. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at, you bastard?’ he demanded, struggling to free himself, but instead rolling precariously towards the edge of the bed. The Russian pushed him back using the bottom of his foot.
‘ I don’t play at anything,’ the Russian replied evenly, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘I follow instructions and expect others to do likewise.’
‘ Meaning what?’
‘ You came with a colleague. Our meeting was supposed to be one to one.’
Thompson’s mouth twisted with guilt. ‘So fucking what?’
‘ I was naturally upset by the change of plan and wished to negotiate from a position of control, shall we say?’
‘ You can say what you fucking well like. Now let me go or-’
‘ What?’ the Russian asked sharply. ‘My friends in Russia will be very disappointed by this lack of professionalism on your part. You should have realised at an early stage in our relationship that we always stick to our word and demand that others do the same. It is not much to ask. So, why the two of you?’
Thompson glanced at the other man who had remained silent. He was a bruiser of a guy, shaven head, earring, fairly low intelligence. A goon. His name was Gunk Elphick. ‘He came to watch my back.’
The Russian withheld a guffaw. ‘You do not trust us?’
No reply.
The Russian sniffed, considered matters with a slow, thoughtful nodding of the head. He came to a decision. ‘I, as an act of goodwill, will show you that we still have faith in you. The job will be done, but I wish you to know that if you had done this in Moscow — turned up with more people than expected or arranged — you would both be dead now.’ He blinked underneath the stocking. ‘That is no boast. That is the reality of the Russian way of life. I would have killed you both without question. But as we are in England, a more civilised and forgiving society, I shall let it pass… this time.’ The last two words were spoken with a stone-cold certainty. ‘Now tell me about the target.’
Thompson nodded towards the briefcase on the dressing table. ‘There’s a couple of photos in there. Recent ones.’
The Russian pulled them out. ‘He looks a tough man.’
‘ He is, so be careful. Do you think you can handle it?’
‘ I’ve handled you two without too much difficulty, haven’t I?’ he responded coolly. ‘Right — I need you to keep me informed of his whereabouts over the next few days, his plans, his intended movements. Are you able to do that simple thing, follow that simple instruction?’
‘ We live in his pocket, so it’s not a problem. We’ll contact you here.’
The Russian shook his head and pointed to a piece of paper on the bedside cabinet. ‘There is a mobile phone number on that. I will not be remaining here.’ He stood up. ‘It’s probably better you don’t know where I am… if only for your own safety.’
‘ OK. Now, you going to let us go, or what?’ Thompson asked.
‘ You are responsible for your predicament.’ He reached for the door handle.
‘ You chickenshit bastard!’ Gunk screamed.
The Russian’s hand hovered over the door handle. He crossed back into the room and stood by the bed. He raised his Browning and pointed it at Gunk’s head. The skinhead’s face contorted horribly at the prospect of a bullet. Thompson cowered away too.
Suddenly the Russian slid the gun into his jacket pocket and as he pulled his hand out, he slashed across the air to Gunk’s face. The stiletto shot down into his palm and he sliced it across Gunk’s earlobe, almost cutting it off with the deadly sharp blade.
‘ Next time,’ the Russian said, turning to go, ‘I’ll cut your heart out.’
Chapter Four
It is claimed that prisons are the University of Crime, and there is some truth in that. However, the belief that a young car thief, for example, who finds himself behind bars will come out as a safe cracker, knowing all the tricks of the trade, is a misconception. The sad truth is that, more than likely, he will come out as a dope-head no-hoper and fall back into a grubby existence of petty crime and drug abuse followed by further spells inside which get longer and longer.
On the other hand, it would be unusual for a criminal who has a recognised trade and makes a good living (a professional, in other words) to come out of prison and fall into such a way of life. He is more than likely to come out a better, more well-connected, more wary criminal or, perhaps, like Billy Crane, to actually see the error of his ways… and then move into a completely different line of activity.
When Crane received his twelve-year jail sentence in I986 for the safe job at the Halifax Building Society and Grievous Bodily Harm on PC Terry Briggs (reduced from Attempted Murder), he entered prison as a hero. Career criminals such as Crane are highly respected in that fraternity and life in prison was a doddle for him. He was a very hard, uncompromising man anyway, and he got no hassle from the prison rulers.
Although he buckled down to the inevitability of prison life, Crane began to brood in his cell. He constantly rubbed the sore shoulder where that bastard cop had shot him, and started to doubt his whole existence as a professional criminal. He came to think of himself as a blacksmith. A man with lots of skills, learned and acquired over many years, but which had become anachronistic in the modern world of crime.
Robbery and burglary were very hard ways to make a living, even though the buzz of committing such offences was incredible.
Then he got to comparing himself to the manufacturing industry, trying to survive in an economic climate dominated by service industries. The main service industry in the criminal world being the drugs trade, of course.
As the realisation dawned on him that safe breakers and bank robbers were old hat, not least because the cops had started shooting back these days, and that there were far easier ways to make a crooked pound sterling, Crane concluded he needed to do something about it: make plans for his release. The last thing he wanted was to become the grand-daddy of safe-crackers and blaggers, locked up at the age of sixty because he could not run fast enough, telling boring war stories to young wannabes.