‘ 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 amp; 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.