Rupert Davison had always been a high flyer. He had decided at a very early stage in his career about the path it should take and then he had made it happen. He had been twenty-four years old when he joined the police with a business-related degree behind him and two years in industrial management. Two years after joining the Force he had passed his promotion examination to Sergeant, gaining the highest marks in the whole of the country that year. This automatically made him eligible to apply for the accelerated promotion scheme (APS) and after a series of gruelling interviews — at which he excelled — Davison found himself officially classed as a high flyer and was promoted to Sergeant, to the despair of his colleagues. It seemed to them only to confirm that the system was flawed. Two years after that he was an Inspector with high expectations of progressing further.
Davison’s career plan had two prongs to it: one was to be a high-ranking detective at some stage, and another was to become part of that elite group of top cops known as ACPO — the Association of Chief Police Officers. He had his heart set on becoming a Chief Constable by the time he was forty-five.
Whenever possible, he engineered time on CID duties; this was fairly easy to do, as people on the APS could, to a degree, pick and choose their developmental posts. Hence he did short spells as a Detective Constable, Detective Sergeant and Detective Inspector — to get these on to his CV. He eventually got stuck at uniform Chief Inspector, much to his annoyance. Because of this he answered a job advert in Police Review asking for suitably qualified officers to apply for Superintendents’ vacancies in the Greater Manchester Police.
He sailed through the selection procedures, was transferred form Lancashire and appointed to uniform Superintendent. Eventually, assisted by his CV, he got a job as a Senior Investigating Officer on the CID.
This was where his problems began.
He had not realised that a wide CID background was a necessity for this role. He had thought of the SIO more as a management function, rather than an investigative one. He was wrong. Whilst the management side of it was very important, the nous of an investigator — a body-catcher, a detective with a good nose for a collar — was probably even more important.
The first couple of murders he found himself heading were cleared up easily, lulling him into a false sense of security. The next six got nowhere and he started to panic. Six major investigations stalling was not good news for someone who wanted to go higher.
He desperately needed a spectacular success.
Davison knew that in his early days as a cop, his reputation had been one of recklessness. He had managed to curb that very successfully, even though on some occasions this trait would resurface: once, for example, as a uniformed Inspector, he single-handedly rugby-tackled a gunman at a siege, putting his own life and those of others in extreme danger, but at the same time achieving a remarkable result. He had been severely criticised for his actions internally, but externally the media hailed him as a hero.
It was that side of his personality that was driving his actions at the present time. If he didn’t get a result in the Jacky Lee murder case, he knew his time as an SIO would come to an ignominious end and maybe his promotion prospects would be spoiled for ever.
Desperation and the possibility of a superb result made him use Henry Christie and Terry Briggs’s statements and actually interview Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick himself. He could almost visualise the newspaper headlines acknowledging his success. But his lack of criminal interviewing skills showed when both men laughed in his face and admitted nothing; then when Henry had been beaten up, he realised what a stupid error he had made — hence his idea to make the master interview tapes ‘disappear’ from the library to cover his tracks.
And now his career was facing its biggest ever crisis: Henry Christie’s threat to expose his incompetence.
Davison knew that if Henry kept his word — and there was no reason to doubt it — he was finished. Certainly his time as an SIO would end. The subsequent enquiry would highlight his foolhardiness in jeopardising the life of an undercover cop and he would no doubt be accused of corrupt and improper practice for interfering with the interview tapes, maybe even theft. His police career could well come to an end in shame and disgrace.
Yes, Davison realised, in Henry Christie he had a problem.
Six hours after the Russian, Yuri Ivankov, had landed in Paris from Manchester over a week earlier, he was sitting in a cafe in the north of the city of Boulevard des Batignolles at the busy junction with Rue de Constantinople. He was eating a plate of oysters followed by ris de veau and had been there for thirty minutes, mixing in easily and inconspicuously with the early evening crowd, when the target arrived.
Yuri had been adequately briefed on his arrival in the city by a man who sat next to him on the coach from the airport. Little had actually been said, but that did not surprise the Russian. In his area of speciality, most people did not want to interact socially with him. He understood this, took no umbrage. The man simply handed him a slim briefing pack to read, containing a few, but essential, details; these included several recent photographs of the target, when and where he could be found that evening, where and what type of weapon would be available for use.
The Russian scanned the pack a few times, then handed it back. He and the man made no eye-contact and the remainder of the journey passed in silence. The Russian was at a window seat, watching the Paris skyline draw closer. It was a city he loved. He regretted not being able to spend much time in it. After tonight, his second hit in the city, he doubted he would ever return for pleasure.
When the target appeared at the time specified in the brief and sat down as predicted, the Russian was pleased. It meant homework had been done. It also meant the target was a creature of habit, something that no underworld player could afford to be. Not if he wanted to stay alive.
The Russian wiped his mouth and checked his watch. Two minutes to go.
He had already called for the bill and placed a generous amount on the saucer. Generous enough for the waiter to develop a fogged memory.
Only then did he reach underneath the table to remove the handgun that had been taped there. The Russian did not check it. The briefing note had specified where it was to be found, that the safety would be off and that the gun would be wrapped in a plastic bag to prevent the spent cartridges ejecting. That was a nice touch, the Russian had thought. Empty cartridges meant evidence. The note also said there would be a bullet in the breech and therefore the gun would be ready for immediate use.
He stood up and strolled slowly out the cafe. It was a warm night. Many of the outer tables were taken. People chatted happily, concentrating on their food and wine.
He weaved between them, came up swiftly behind the target and simply fired four shots into his head. The Russian had been informed what type of bullets would be in the gun. The damage done to the man’s head confirmed this.
Two long strides took the Russian to the edge of the pavement.
Seemingly from nowhere, a trials bike screamed across in front of him, two on board. The passenger held open a black plastic bag into which the Russian dropped the pistol. The bike revved, slewed away into the traffic and disappeared, immediately replaced by a black Citroen. The rear passenger door swung open and the Russian coolly flopped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. The car accelerated away. The Russian did not have the slightest inclination to glance back over his shoulder to see the terrified confusion he had left in his wake.
It had been an easy hit of the type he had pulled a dozen times before.