The very last pick-up of the day was from a bank in Carlisle at 1.30 p.m. Slightly behind schedule, but nothing to be concerned about. Within minutes of leaving the bank they were on the M6 heading south. Colin Hodge was at the wheel of the security van. His stomach was still jittery, which was fine. It fitted in nicely with the plans. He’d already had to make one urgent, unscheduled stop and race to the toilet before shitting himself. It had been a stop where nothing untoward had happened, so a second stop would not raise eyebrows from his mates.
And that second stop would be on the southbound motorway service area near Lancaster, formerly — and more widely — known as Forton Services. It was here that Hodge would be given specific instructions to follow before continuing southwards. The robbery, he had been told by Smith, would actually take place at the gates of the security waste disposal company in Stafford, but the stop at Lancaster was necessary in order to make contact and confirm everything was going to plan.
Hodge tried to relax as he drove. He engaged in the inane banter of his colleagues and kept his mind focused on not betraying anything to them.
But try as he might, he could not keep his mind off the passport and tickets which Don Smith was holding for him which would fly him firstly to Amsterdam, then on to Rome and from there, via the Middle East, to Australia, where, twenty-five million pounds richer, he would live a life of splendour and indulgence.
Chapter Sixteen
Each year one of the main political parties comes to Blackpool to hold its annual conference, usually at the beginning of October. The policing operation which services these conferences is phenomenal, costing millions of pounds. The public only see the visible side of the operation when the conferences are up and running, when normal day-to-day life in the resort is massively disrupted. That part is only a fraction of a huge enterprise which commences many months earlier, when much repetitive, mind-blowing legwork is done.
Since the bombing of the Tory Party hotel in Brighton in 1984, the security of delegates, whether in government or otherwise, is at the top of the policing agenda. One of the ways in which this is achieved is by vetting. This means doing background checks on hundreds of people including staff employed at the Winter Gardens — which is the actual venue of the conferences — and of the employees at the main hotels where delegates stay during conference week.
It is tedious work, often producing nothing remotely exciting, but it has to be done.
At the hotels it is not only the staff who are checked out. Every guest registered in the preceding year is also checked. The rationale behind this is simple. As bomb-making technology improves, devices which can be planted months, even years, before they are due to explode can be placed in rooms to detonate during conference week, at night, when the delegates are most likely to be in their rooms.
Each guest, unless known, is a potential terrorist and needs to be checked out and vetted.
This is something that Billy Crane and Don Smith had not taken into account when the former booked into the Imperial Hotel under an assumed name and paid cash for his stay; and the latter paid for a meal with his own Barclaycard.
Every name is checked out and any which are suspect will soon start to flash red in the system.
DC Rik Dean, seconded for a six-month period to the vetting team, was sitting in a very cramped office in Blackpool Central police station, checking and cross-checking paperwork, when the phone rang next to him. He picked it up. ‘Conference Planning, Vetting Team, Rik Dean, can I help you?’ he answered blandly.
‘ Rik, it’s me — Danny Furness.’
Rik’s stomach did a hop, skip and a twirl. The back of his neck reddened. He swallowed. ‘Hello, Danny,’ he whispered timidly, mouth dry, vividly remembering leaving her high, dry, gasping and unsatisfied on her kitchen floor simply because he’d been spooked by the thought of screwing in the same location as a suicide.
Danny tried to sound bright and unconcerned. ‘How are you?’
‘ All right, I suppose.’
‘ About the other night, Rik. Forget it. No hard feelings, not a problem.’
‘ Yeah, sure, whatever.’ God, he almost choked when he thought about the opportunity missed. It had been there on a plate. ‘Maybe some other time?’ he ventured hopefully.
‘ I don’t think so,’ she said, still bright, failing to add, You missed your chance, tosspot. ‘I was a bit out of my head and it probably wouldn’t have been the right thing for us anyway, don’t you think?’
‘ Yeah, yeah,’ he said sonorously.
‘ Rik, what I’m phoning about is — when we were talking the other night in the club, you mentioned you were on the vetting team and that something interesting had been thrown up from the Imperial Hotel. Something about a guy… now correct me if I’m wrong, Rik, because I was totally pissed when you were telling me this and most of it went over my head… something about a guy who seems to have given false details when he was staying at the hotel, who stayed for one night, paid cash, and had dinner with another guy who visited him. This second guy — again correct me if I’m wrong — was called Don Smith. He used a credit card in that name. Am I right?’
‘ Yes, you are. I don’t even remember telling you.’
‘ Shows how bladdered you were, too. Tell me about it.’
‘ This fella books into the hotel into one of the best suites. Has dinner with this Don Smith character and leaves the morning after. We run all the normal checks and it transpires the address he gave does not exist — some street in Blackburn that was demolished years ago.’
‘ What’ve you done about it?’
‘ Tried to get hold of Don Smith, but we haven’t been able to do so yet. His credit-card address relates to an office in Blackpool which just seems to be a place where post gets sent.’
‘ Have you any idea who the other guy is?’
‘ Not yet. The one called Smith is a local Lancashire villain from Blackburn. We got his details from the credit-card company, but haven’t been able to pin him down at this address yet. It’s a mystery, but we’re not too concerned about it. There doesn’t seem to be a terrorist link, which is what we’re really concerned about, obviously.’
‘ Has the suite been used since? The one Mr Unknown used?’
‘ I imagine so. You thinking about fingerprints?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ It’ll have been cleaned if nothing else, so I doubt whether it would be worth dusting. What’s all this about, Danny?’
‘ Not sure yet. Possibly a connection with the triple murder.’
‘ Oh, right,’ Rik said, interested.
Danny shuffled her thoughts. ‘What I’m going to do is this, Rik — and bear with me please, because I’m just following a hunch here. I’m going to get a motorcyclist to pick up a mugshot of a guy from here at Headquarters and I’ll ask him to drop it off with you.’ She was already thinking ahead to losing a case because of lax procedure, so she wanted this done correctly. ‘You go to the CID office and get a book of photographs similar to the one I’ve sent and slot it in. Then go over to the hotel and ask the waiters to have a look through the book. See if they pick out the guy. Do it properly. Record it all on the right forms and don’t prompt — that’s important. In the meantime I’m going to get Scenes of Crime to go over that suite. You never know. Any questions?’
‘ No, but I love it when you’re authoritative.’
‘ Rik, honey… I could’ve been all yours, but you blew it.’
Danny hung up and rubbed her hands. All she needed to do now was root out a photo of Billy Crane which even though it would be a dozen years old would have to do. Beggars could not be choosers.
She dashed back to see Henry.
Colin Hodge checked the time. It was 2.30 p.m. now and he was approaching the North Lancaster exit of the M6, about six miles away from the service area. He had been instructed to try to arrive at the services about 2.45 p.m., to fit in with the ‘bigger picture’, whatever that meant. Once at the services, he had been told to go to the gents’ toilets where Smith would be waiting; the latter would brief him about the next stage of events. Hodge would then continue his journey south — or so he believed.