package bound by elastic bands. The Russian removed the package, re-covered the spare and slammed the boot shut.
Without opening the package, he slid it underneath the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, after refuelling — cash only — he was back on the motorway, coming off at the next junction 33 — where he joined the A6, back-tracked a couple of miles south towards Garstang and found a quiet lay-by.
Here he unwrapped the package and peered inside. He was reassured to see he had been provided with what he had requested. Firstly, the American Arms Spectre auto loading pistol, 9mm, thirty-shot magazine capacity with one extra in the chamber; six-inch barrel, 72 oz in weight, adjustable sights with a blue finish. Secondly a Browning BDM pistol, 9mm, capacity of fifteen plus one, with a 4.73-inch barrel, adjustable sights and, again, a blue finish. Spare magazines were also included. He folded the package and replaced it under the seat.
Jacky Lee’s apartment was bright and beige, spotless and huge, typical of the kind of place inhabited by wealthy criminals without any specific taste in furniture, fittings, or art. Its immense size struck Henry as soon as he stepped out of the lift. It was his first time up here and he was impressed. In the dim, distant past, Henry had been to Lee’s family home, a farmhouse in the Northumbrian countryside which Jacky shared with his wife and kids.
At this moment, though, Lee was obviously not thinking too deeply about his wife. He was sitting at a smoked-glass-topped dining table dressed in a very short towelling robe which rode up to the top of his thighs. Henry hoped he was wearing underpants. Lee was stuffing a croissant into his mouth. Directly opposite him sat a stunning-looking woman with a wide, oval face, attired in an equally revealing robe sagging open at her chest, showing a deep cleavage. Henry thought she would have looked wonderful in just about anything.
‘ Hey, Frank, you cunt!’ Lee shouted through his mouthful. ‘Get in here.’ He flapped his fingers at a spare chair at the table.
Henry slid off his jacket and tossed it over a coffee-table. He walked across the apartment, noting the view of the canal basin was tremendous now that it had been developed. He plonked himself confidently down on the chair and picked up a cup which he reckoned to wipe clean with his fingers. He reached for the coffee in a jug on a hot plate.
Lee wiped his mouth with a napkin.
‘ Mornin’ Jacky,’ Henry said. It was actually a minute after noon. He nodded at the woman and was caught briefly — stunningly — by the flash of her wonderful wide brown eyes. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was already searingly jealous of Jacky Lee.
‘ This is Natasha,’ Lee said. He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘And if you even think of laying a finger on her, you’ll have to answer to me.’ He laughed coldly.
‘ The thought would never even enter my head,’ Henry reassured him, feeling uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t there. However, as Frank Jagger, he didn’t give a shit. Women were merely appendages in Jagger’s world. Something to be used and discarded. Something to have hanging from your arm. The prettier and dumber the better — but he guessed that Natasha was far from dumb.
Henry took a drink of coffee, his eyes playing over the rim of the big breakfast cup at Lee and his lady friend, wondering how he had allowed himself to be dragged into this game again.
He had only himself to blame. Two and a half months earlier he had been operating as a Divisionally based Detective Inspector in charge of reactive CID operations at Blackpool. He was a busy man. Sorting out the messy suicide of fellow DI Jack Sands as well as the aftermath of the murder of a paedophile, together with the escape from custody of a dangerous child murderer called Louis Vernon Trent who had consistently outmanoeuvred the police in their efforts to recapture him. And lots of other things. It was all fairly easy, undemanding work for a detective of his calibre, well within his capabilities.
Then, out of the blue, he got a call to attend Headquarters to see the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. It had actually been Fanshaw-Bayley, known in short as FB, who had summoned him personally by phone. Cagey and obtuse as ever, he had refused to tell Henry what he wanted to see him for. Just: ‘Get your arse across here now.’ FB was fondly regarded for his way with words.
Annoyed, frustrated — and not a little worried — Henry had done as bid. Summonses to parade on at HQ come few and far between. Usually they are for promotion or bollocking. Henry knew he was not going to be promoted… and as he drove the twenty or so miles from Blackpool to Headquarters, just to the south of Preston, his heart was beating faster than it should have done. His mind kept asking, ‘What have you done this time, Henry?’
He was spirited quickly through FB’s secretary’s office into FB’s own palatial one, recently redecorated, overlooking the rugby pitch. FB was sitting behind his desk, wallowing in his new leather swivel chair. This was the man who, over the years, had caused Henry some grief and heartache. Henry did not like him at all, but suspected FB quite liked him in a perverted sort of way, although he did not often show it and usually treated Henry like shite.
On the other side of the desk was another man. Henry did not recognise him immediately.
‘ Henry, what the fuck took you so long?’ FB said jovially and bounced up to his feet. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Davison from Greater Manchester Police.’
Henry shook the man’s hand, eyeing him uncertainly. Somewhere in the depths of his mind there was a vague tinge of familiarity.
‘ Used to be one of us until he deserted ship,’ FB said.
‘ Ahh.’ Henry released Davison’s hand. ‘I thought I recognised the face,’ he lied whitely. Actually he still had not placed him.
‘ Our paths have crossed,’ Davison said worryingly.
‘ Tea? Coffee?’ FB asked Henry.
‘ Tea, please.’
FB pointed towards a spare chair. ‘Pull it up, sit down.’ He intercommed his secretary and ordered the beverages, sat down and leaned back, interlocking his fingers across his chest. He beamed at Henry. ‘Isn’t this nice?’
‘ Er…’ Henry raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them and shrugged his shoulders. Not promotion, didn’t look like a bollocking.. so what the hell was it? ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘ Hang on, let’s get that brew first.’ On cue the office door opened and FB’s secretary bumbled in bearing a tray.
‘ OK,’ said FB after his first sip of tea, ‘over to you, Rupert.’
He nodded at Davison.
‘ Do the names Jacky Lee and Frank Jagger mean anything to you?’ Davison asked Henry.
Henry’s guts churned loudly at the mention, making him wish he’d had a bigger breakfast. His head dipped. ‘Jacky Lee is, or was, a good-class villain from the North-East. Dealt in anything going, mainly drugs and stolen booze and fags. He got put away in 1992 as a result of a chain of events kicked off by Frank Jagger.’ He paused. ‘I assume you know who Frank Jagger is?’ Henry’s suspicious eyes flickered to FB and back again to Davison, who was nodding.
‘ I’ll come straight to the point, Henry,’ Davison said with a wide gesture indicating honesty. ‘Jacky Lee came out of prison in 1996 after serving four years of his eight-year sentence. He’s back on the streets, back in business and as ruthless as ever. On his release from prison he went back to Newcastle and wound down his businesses there, then moved his whole operation across the Pennines to Manchester, where he’s been up and running about eighteen months now. He left his wife and kids there, by the way.
‘ About two months ago we found a body floating in the ship canal at Irlam, brains blown out. I am the Senior Investigating Officer on the enquiry. Turns out the body was a Geordie called Pasha, an Asian guy. We believe that Jacky Lee either killed, or contracted somebody to kill him because Lee thought — wrongly as it happens — that Pasha had grassed on him back in ‘92. We believe Lee lured him down from Newcastle on some pretext of doing business and murdered him. The word is now out on the streets that that is what happens when you inform on Jacky Lee.
‘ Our problem, Henry, is that we can’t get close enough to Lee,’ Davison said. Now Henry could see what was coming. ‘There’s not even reasonable suspicion to arrest him for murder, and as far as I’m concerned, all
