Nick Oldham
The Last Big Job
Prologue
Blackburn, Lancashire, 1986
They moved into action at midnight.
Billy Crane checked his watch, eyed his two companions in the darkness and nodded sharply. The three men were sitting in a stolen Ford Sierra Cosworth fitted with clean number plates. It was the preferred getaway car of the moment — a big, powerful brute of a car which usually stuck two fingers up at the cops.
They pulled on their nylon Balaclavas, obliterating their faces with the exception of their eyes and mouths. Next they each eased on a pair of tight surgical gloves and over them, another pair of thin woollen gloves. Crane wasn’t too bothered about fingerprints being left in the Cosworth because within four hours of the job being done, it would be comprehensively destroyed; first by gutting it with fire and then dropping in into a crusher in the scrap yard owned by one of his questionable friends. From there it would be spewed out as a twisted metal box the size of a policeman’s helmet.
Crane climbed out of the Cosworth, his companions close behind. They went to the boot and grabbed their equipment for the job ahead. Then, tooled up and laden down, they moved cautiously through darkened alleyways until they reached the rear of a terrace of shops and offices at the edge of town.
By then it was 12.10 a.m.
Crane dropped to his haunches, as did the other two behind him.
‘ We wait,’ he hissed, looking at his watch again. ‘Five minutes.’
The same Friday night-Saturday morning.
Over any given year, Blackburn — statistically — is the busiest town in Lancashire from a policing point of view. Blackpool may have horrendously hectic summers, but in winter it can be a ghost town from Monday to Friday each week; Preston may not lag far behind, but Blackburn consistently puts them both in the shade in terms of officer deployments and public demand.
And weekends are always busy, even when they are quiet.
The only thing that made that particular Friday night any different was that it was the first night of the year warm enough for officers to turn out in shirt-sleeve order.
Since the night shift came on duty at ten, the few officers out on the streets had been run ragged. Sixteen people had been locked up over a two-hour period; sixty jobs been logged in the Comms Room. The town was heaving. Situation normal. However, things were about to take on a new dimension.
The first call which was out of the ordinary was logged at 12.16 a.m. At that exact moment a young policewoman called Danielle Furness was storming angrily through the underground cell complex at Blackburn police station. Scurrying sheepishly behind her was a male colleague, much the same age, but barely out of his probation.
Both of them were dishevelled — owing to the fact that fifteen minutes earlier they had been rolling around on the ground, fighting. Not each other, but with a crowd of drunken youths who had taken it upon themselves to give the two officers a good hammering.
When Danny had paraded on duty at ten o’clock with the rest of her shift, she had been partnered up with the less experienced man and given the keys for one of the patrol cars. The younger officer had yet to earn a permit to drive police cars, having recently failed a standard driving course; in fact, having narrowly scraped through his probationary period by the skin of his teeth, he was fortunate even to have a job.
Rupert Davison had that certain knack of getting himself, and others, into trouble. Consequently, nobody wanted to work with him.
And yet, when Danny drew the short straw that night and found herself working with him, at first she did not mind. Blackburn is a tough Northern town, and night duty is always potentially dangerous. Bobbies needed partners for safety’s sake.
Danny received several comments about Davison and was told to watch her back. The guy was dangerous.
‘ He can’t be that bad,’ she responded.
‘ Oh he is, he fucking is,’ she was assured.
The first hour and a half or so of the tour had gone well. Danny was pleasantly surprised. She hated people who prejudged others and always tried to avoid doing it herself This was the first time she had ever gone out on patrol with Rupert, and contrary to reports, she found him amiable — charming — almost good company and pretty competent. If she had started off believing all the crap about him, she knew she would have struggled to remain positive. As it happened, they were busy, going from job to job, and Rupert had done his whack without any problems. Danny got to thinking that everybody was completely wrong about him… give a dog a bad name and all that.. she was quite impressed.
Just before midnight, they were cruising along Darwen Street, one of Blackburn’s busiest thoroughfares, night or day.
‘ What I really want is to get involved in cracking some serious crime. International stuff, if you know what I mean,’ Rupert was saying, revealing his pipe dreams. ‘I’m going to get on the Fast Track and I really want to be an ACPO officer…’ As he talked he spotted a couple of youths urinating in a shop doorway. ‘Stop!’ he shouted to Danny. ‘I want a word with those guys. Dirty gits.’
Danny slammed on the brakes, reversed back up the street. ‘Just warn them,’ she told Rupert. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in trivia tonight.’
He either chose not to hear, or genuinely did not. He jumped out of the car and strode authoritatively to the offending pissers, both of whom were completely drunk.
Danny remained behind the wheel, watching Rupert deal with the incident. It all seemed to be going well. There were a few smiles, nods and the typical drunken behaviour of wanting to shake hands. Then suddenly it all went banana-shaped.
Rupert began prodding one of the lads in the chest with a very attitude-filled forefinger, backing him up against a shop window. The drunk swung a punch and Rupert’s flat cap went flying through the air like a Frisbee. Rupert grabbed the lad’s lapels and then the second youth leapt on to the young PC’s back, trying to strangle and punch him in the head and face.
‘ Oh hell,’ Danny moaned. ‘So it is all true.’ She dived out of the car, radioing for back-up.
Danny hauled the youth off Rupert’s back, stumbled and found herself flat on her back with the lad on top of her about to head-butt the bridge of her nose. She smacked him hard on the side of his head, sending him sprawling across the pavement.
Out of the corner of her eye she was conscious of Rupert and his opponent thrashing hell out of one another. Danny’s attention returned quickly to the youth she had belted. He had already staggered to his feet and was bearing down on her again, intent on delivering a mighty kick to her body.
She was up in a flash, but he was on her and once more she found herself on the ground fighting wildly.
Six other youths staggered noisily out of the Cathedral grounds at that point. All were drunk, carrying cider bottles. The moment they saw the scene in front of them, they joined in. Any opportunity to have a dig at a cop was not to be missed.
Moments later, two police vans screeched on to the scene disgorging the two ‘Strike Force’ teams: six bobbies with very hairy backsides, heavy boots and ugly dispositions.
Six arrests were made from the melee and, fighting all the way to the station, the youths were bundled — and battered where necessary — into cells. The documentation and processing would come several hours later when they had all sobered up.
