He sat in the car for several minutes, blinking absently. The cassette-player was turned up loud, blasting out the latest studio album by the Stones. The songs perfectly matched the way Henry was feeling, particularly the loud rocker called ‘Flip the Switch’; in it, over Keith Richards’s harsh guitar chords, Mick Jagger sang sneeringly about a guy being executed by electric chair, encouraging the authorities to get the power turned on so that he could get into the filthy pit of hell… into which Henry firmly believed he was stuck at that moment in time.
He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of water, took a mouthful. For a few seconds, whilst rushing the cool, apple-flavoured drink around his tongue, teeth and gums, his mouth felt fresh. He swallowed; within moments the taste had returned, making him retch.
Henry switched the engine off and got lethargically out.
The sleek BMW was next to pull in through the gates of the warehouse yard. Smith was operating the roller door, yanking the chain quickly, making enough of a gap for the German car to drive in. The door rolled shut as he released the chain.
Billy Crane directed the car across to the far side of the warehouse.
Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov climbed out and walked back towards Crane and Smith.
All were dressed in dark clothing and trainers. They looked mean and ready for business, exuding the smell of danger.
Crane eyed them through slitted lids, wondering, his nostrils flaring, a sense of unease in him… He shook it off, smiled and offered his hand to each of them in turn, welcoming them. He led them into the office where he made coffee.
‘ How goes it?’ Thompson enquired.
‘ No problems,’ Smith replied. He checked his watch. ‘Plenty of time yet.’
Not many minutes behind Henry Christie, Danny Furness also arrived at Headquarters, driving her nippy little Mazda MX-5, a car she had purchased following an insurance payout on her last car which had been stolen and torched. She turned left, as Henry had done, and drove past the OHWU just as Henry was walking up the driveway towards the door of the unit. He was the last person Danny expected to see. She thought he was still away working U/C. She saw him, slammed on and pipped her horn to attract his attention, waving madly — delightedly — at him. He frowned, a puzzled expression on his face — and Danny covered her mouth in shock. He peered towards her for a few moments, then realised who was honking at him. He waved listlessly and approached her like it was a chore, almost dragging his feet.
Danny wound her window down. She did her utmost to keep her smile bright, when in fact she was severely appalled by the sight of his face. He looked ten years older, haggard and very drawn and grey. His skin hung loosely off his facial bones, his eyes were surrounded by purple bags. His clothing seemed loose too, like he’d lost an enormous amount of weight very quickly.
‘ Hi, Henry, what’re you up to?’ she asked brightly. The question seemed to faze and embarrass him and throw him all at once. He looked edgily round as though he needed to find a way of escaping the situation, like a trapped animal.
‘ Mmm?’ he responded vaguely. It was obvious he could not think of anything to say. Danny hoped her horror was not betrayed by her expression. It was like being in the presence of an Alzheimer’s sufferer. ‘I’m just going for one of them Healthline checks,’ he said weakly. He was referring to the free, complete health and fitness check offered by the OHWU to members of the Force.
‘ Oh, right — good idea. I could do with one of them,’ Danny said. She knew Henry was telling lies.
He pulled himself together a little. ‘You?’
‘ We’re having a big review of that triple murder and we’re down at the Training School, using their facilities. It’s one of those Where are we up to? Where’s it going? Why haven’t we solved it yet? kind of things. Going to give ourselves a good whipping, I expect. Come down after, if you fancy it. You’d be dead welcome. Your ideas would be helpful.’
‘ I might at that,’ he said. His tone of voice told Danny it was unlikely.
He tapped the roof of Danny’s car and gave her a pallid smile before turning and walking away. He did not give her a backward glance. Danny watched him go, very troubled. In that short exchange she concluded it was not the Henry Christie she knew — and loved. It was a pale shadow and she was intrigued to discover why that was. Maybe he had suffered a bereavement or something — or had he got some horrible disease? She clicked the car into first and drove on down to the training school, her thoughts bursting with Henry Christie.
Next through the warehouse gates was a beat-up Cavalier, its exterior condition belying the fact that underneath the bonnet beat a high-performance engine in prime mechanical condition. It pulled up in one corner of the yard behind the hire car; two men jumped out and made their way directly to the warehouse door which was opened for them by Smith. These were Hawker and Price, the two who had played such a big part in the abduction and murder of the unfortunate Cheryl and Spencer. They had been well remunerated for that job and had lain low since; today they expected to be paid well enough to see them through the rest of their lives.
Smith indicated the office. Hawker and Price joined the others, helping themselves to coffee.
Smith remained by the door, constantly checking his watch. If things kept going as smoothly as this, another vehicle would be arriving shortly. He smiled with satisfaction when a battered Ford Transit trundled through the gates and manoeuvred into a position ready to reverse into the loading bay. Smith already had his finger on the door-open button.
The contents of the van were delivered quickly. Within minutes the vehicle was leaving, the driver having seen only Smith, none of the others. Smith wasn’t too bothered by this. After today, remaining in England would be far too dangerous and unpredictable. He had also made plans for the future.
When the loading-bay door closed, Smith called out, ‘You can come out now.’
The rest of the team, Crane, Thompson, Elphick, Drozdov, Hawker and Price, skulked out of the office.
Smith tossed each one of them a bundle wrapped in polythene.
For Hawker, the package contained an exact copy of the uniform worn by the guards of the security firm whose van they intended to plunder later that day. It had been made to measure and was a perfect fit, including a crash hat bearing the firm’s insignia, overalls, socks and boots and bulletproof vest.
The others received their working clothes for the day ahead: bulletproof vests, overalls, light steel toe-capped boots, black ski masks and black jackets.
Smith looked at his watch again. Half an hour to the next delivery.
It came bang on time.
A very new, flashy Volvo estate drove into the yard, swung round and reversed up to the loading bay.
Again, everyone with the exception of Smith remained scarce as the contents were hauled out by him and the lone driver. There was no hanging about. Within seconds of completing the delivery, the Volvo had disappeared down the road.
Once more the team emerged from hiding and milled around Smith, gazing down at the equipment on the warehouse floor.
Guns. Ammunition. Shock batons. Person-to-person radios.
Smith, who had been basically acting as Quartermaster, distributed the weaponry between each person according to the plan he and Crane had put together. Soon each man was in his own little concentration bubble, checking and loading.
Drozdov looked up. An Uzi machine pistol hung in his hand down by one side, a pistol at the other.
‘ I think, gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘it is time we were told the exact nature of the day ahead.’
Crane nodded. Drozdov was correct. The time had come to reveal all.
The Murder Squad, under the watchful, facilitative eye of the SIO, worked hard that morning, both as a big group in the assembly hall at the Training School and in syndicates dotted around various classrooms on the campus where they focused on particular aspects of the triple murder. In essence they were having a ‘brain dump’, collating and actioning ideas, ludicrous or otherwise, in an effort to take the investigation further.