Henry had driven all the way from Blackpool in his own car, cautiously adopting anti-surveillance tactics to ensure he wasn’t being followed — which could mean his cover was blown. In the undercover game nothing is ever taken for granted, not if you wanted to collect a pension. And Henry wanted.
In the unit, accessible only by key-code and swipe cards, he picked up Frank Jagger’s pager and mobile phone and the keys for the XJS. He slid into the driver’s seat, enjoying the only perk to being undercover — rarely was money any object. Going for top-class villains meant that cash had to be spent. It was probably the only area in policing where spending had not been drastically reduced over the past few years, though it still remained a consideration in this cost-conscious age.
Then, adopting anti-surveillance tactics again, he made his way to Headquarters Training School.
Henry focused his attention on Davison’s words. They might just save his life.
‘ OK, it stands like this: the murder squad in Manchester have had both of Jacky Lee’s minders in for questioning. Funnily enough they deny any involvement in the dirty deed, and what they say conflicts with your and Terry Briggs’s statements.’
‘ In what way?’ Henry asked.
‘ Thompson and Elphick reckon they did a runner after Lee had been shot, not before, which is what you said. They say they were so frightened, they ran… poor little mites.’
‘ Do any other witnesses contradict what they say, and support our version of events?’
‘ No.’ Davison pulled a pained face. ‘Everybody conflicts with everybody else, at least in some details. You know what it’s like when this sort of thing happens — your mind gets blown. So, because your evidence does not exist, in inverted commas’ — here Davison tweaked the first and second fingers on both hands to indicate inverted commas — ‘we can’t put it to them, as such.’ He was referring to his decision not to use Henry and Terry’s statements, at least not until the undercover operation had paid off, or not, as the case might be.
‘ What do you mean, “as such”?’ Henry wanted to know. He was suspicious of the phrase. It sounded odd to him.
Davison corrected himself. ‘Only that we haven’t used your evidence at all. Now,’ he moved on smoothly, leaving Henry slightly dissatisfied with the remark, ‘it was suggested to Thompson and Elphick that they were behind Lee’s death and that they have gained considerably from it. They denied it, of course, but the word picked up by the murder team is that these guys are now in control of Lee’s operation. It’s a pretty big rumour out on the streets too, but not substantiated yet.’
‘ What about the killer himself? Anything further on him?’
Davison shook his head. ‘No, looks like a pay-per-kill job. In and out, no trace, no leads.’
‘ What about my wire?’ Henry asked, referring to the tape recorder he was wearing at the time of the killing. ‘Anything from that?’
‘ No — too much rustling and banging and distortion.’
‘ The getaway car?’ Henry asked hopefully. There were a lot of negatives.
‘ Not turned up. We reckon it’s been recycled. Loads of scrap yards in the region are being visited, but there’s nothing yet. Either that or it’s in a deep quarry somewhere. I’ll be getting the diving branch to check the best-known dumping places.’
‘ Anything from my description of the driver?’
‘ Nothing concrete, but we do have a suspect. A young lad from a council estate in Salford, suspected of driving at robberies. He’s being looked into…’ Davison paused mid-sentence and quickly said, ‘but very discreetly, of course, as part of the wider picture because your description of him doesn’t exist, does it?’
‘ No, it doesn’t, does it?’ Henry said sourly. Maybe he was prejudging Davison, but he had dropped the question in about the description purposely and got the reply he didn’t want to hear. He breathed in, eyeballing Davison. Not a happy chappie.
‘ I want you to swear to me that our statements have not been used in any way to further this investigation,’ Henry insisted.
The air turned cold as an atmosphere settled on the room.
Davison squirmed, as if his anus had contracted and relaxed.
‘ Because if they have,’ Henry continued, ‘I’m not going back in.’
‘ They haven’t,’ the Superintendent said firmly, but a little too quickly for Henry’s liking.
Colin Hodge should have enjoyed the ninety-minute hydrofoil crossing to La Gomera more than he did. A sense of impending doom about the whole scenario which he himself had engineered blinded his senses. He sat on the upper deck of the Fred Olsen ferry, totally unmoved by the magnificent sight of a school of dolphins accompanying the ship, his guts churning with fear rather than sea-sickness.
The ferry slowed and manoeuvred into San Sebastian, disgorging foot passengers and vehicles on to the harbour side.
Hodge stood by the water’s edge underneath the burning hot sun, looking towards the town, shading his eyes. An old, dusty brown Mercedes drove slowly along the dock towards him, against the flow of traffic leaving the boat.
Loz tapped Hodge on the shoulder. He had also been a passenger on the ferry, easily keeping out of Hodge’s view amongst the holidaymakers and locals on board. Hodge spun quickly and recognised Loz as the mysterious guy who had delivered the poolside message to him earlier. The bandaged hand gave it away for sure. This time Hodge could see Loz’s features properly: a pointed, rather mean face, thinning hair drawn back into a pony tail tied with a red ribbon. The face displayed the bruises of a recent assault. His mouth was twisted into a permanent half-grimace, showing discoloured and crooked teeth. His bandaged hand was laid across his stomach, supported by his other hand. Hodge thought the facial expression was probably connected with the pain from his hand.
‘ Get in the car.’ Loz pointed to the brown Benz. It had stopped close by.
‘ Not until I know where I’m going.’ Hodge dug his heels in with a show of bravado.
‘ To see the boss.’
‘ Not good enough.’
Loz eyed him with pissed-off contempt. ‘Look, I don’t give a monkey’s fart whether you get in or not — and nor does my boss. You can fuck off back on the ferry if you want, but don’t even think of going back to the apartment if you do. The hospitality will have ended. Just fuck off back to England.’
‘ I’ve got something your boss wants.’
‘ Yeah, sure,’ Loz sighed. ‘Just make your mind up.’ He walked to the car and opened a rear door, made a sweeping gesture with his good hand, as a footman might, and raised his eyebrows.
The spur of the moment saw Hodge climb in. The prospect of a share in fifty million pounds overwhelmed him and made the danger seem worthwhile.
Loz sat in the front seat next to the driver. He slid on a pair of shades and gave a quick wave to a cop lounging by a police car. The Mercedes swung round on the harbour and headed towards San Sebastian.
‘ What happened to your hand?’ Hodge asked.
‘ I stuck it in a lion’s mouth.’
It is never a good thing to walk out of a briefing feeling that you have been lied to, but that is exactly what Henry Christie did that afternoon. He left the classroom and wandered out of the training school into the car park which had once been a parade square.
Henry easily and affectionately remembered the early days of his police service — the mid-1970s — when drill had still been a big part of a Probationer Constable’s curriculum and he had marched everywhere. Now very little drill was done. The modern philosophy was that discipline and responsibility should come from within a person, rather than from the parent-like authority of the organisation, via a drill pig.