Wrongly — and Henry knew it was outrageously wrong — it was his personal circumstances which swung it for him.
He went back to FB’s office and announced, ‘I’ll do it.’
Both officers looked relieved.
‘ Have you got a pocket book for me?’ Henry asked Davison, who looked blankly at him.
‘ Why? Won’t your normal one do?’
‘ Undercover officers have a unique one, issued at the beginning of any operation,’ Henry said slowly, trying not to show his impatience. ‘The first page of it has some instructions which you need to read aloud to me, make sure I understand them and sign them as Frank Jagger.’
‘ Oh,’ said Davison, stumped, betraying a further lack of knowledge of undercover policing which Henry found slightly disconcerting. He was not terribly impressed with Davison who, it seemed, had risen through the ranks very quickly indeed. ‘I’ll get you one,’ he said hurriedly.
Later, when Henry told Kate that he had taken on this new U/C job, there was a storming row between them. She did not want him to go back to such work, did not trust him being away from home for such lengthy periods. Their marriage, she pointed out, had enough sticking plasters over the cracks and was ready to bleed again.
But Henry went anyway because he knew that in so doing he would either repair the marriage or break it for good. He needed to know in his own mind which way to go.
Now, ten weeks later, sitting at the breakfast table with Jacky Lee, Henry realised that he hadn’t phoned home for three days, not even when he’d had the opportunity. It was getting harder and harder to talk to Kate… Shit, he cursed, shaking domestic thoughts from his mind, and placed his coffee cup down.
‘ What can I do for you, Jacky?’
‘ I want to know what you can offer me, Frank.’
Henry made a show of rolling his neck as if it was aching, letting his gaze drift slyly towards Natasha. She was looking away from him. ‘What do you want?’
Frank Jagger was a person who could get most things, but he specialised in booze.
‘ Cheap spirits for a start.’ Jacky Lee stood up. ‘Come and have a look at this view,’ he said, taking a mug of coffee across to the picture window. Henry watched him. He was a squat, powerfully-built individual who moved with the confidence that comes from toughness. Henry joined him, admiring the development around the canal basin. The penthouse was in a very desirable position.
‘ Nice,’ Henry murmured.
‘ People seem to float to the surface in it,’ Lee ruminated. His face was contorted in frustration. ‘Pity, that.’
‘ What do you mean?’ Henry probed, thinking: Come on, you bastard, admit what you’ve done.
‘ Nah, nothing.’ Lee shook his head. Henry hid his disappointment and did not push the matter. ‘Cheap booze is what I want and fags, maybe.’
‘ I can do both,’ Henry said. It was no boast.
‘ OK then, let’s chat.’
Despite the sunshine, a cold wind was cutting in from the Irish Sea like razor blades. The Russian shivered and wrapped his winter coat tightly around himself. The chill reminded him of the old days, being frozen to the bone in the severe Russian climate. Not pleasant.
Nowadays he spent much of his spare time mooching around the Mediterranean, only returning to Russia when his masters demanded it.
Arrangements had been made to meet his contact here in Fleetwood, on the Lancashire coast. After a stroll around the small town, he wandered back into the North Euston Hotel and went to the bar where he ordered a coffee. Then he took his cup to a table from which he could easily see the revolving door at the main entrance, but where he could not easily be spotted by someone entering the hotel. He sat down to wait, checking his watch. It was almost 4 p.m.
Two men came into the hotel, walked past the desk and made purposefully for the tiny lift at the end of the foyer. One was carrying a briefcase.
From his position, the Russian watched them. He had never seen either man before, yet he knew they were the ones. His nostrils flared and a little flush of adrenaline gushed into his bloodstream.
The men stepped into the lift. The doors closed and the lift rose to the first floor.
The Russian was seething with anger. He had been told there would only be one contact. It was very unprofessional to send two.
He stood up and walked swiftly to the stairs.
The cases of Spencer Grayson and Cheryl Jones were the last to be heard that day at Blackpool Magistrates’ Court.
Spencer, sober, bad-tempered and reeking to high heaven, slouched defiantly in the dock.
Cheryl stood next to him, head bowed, terrified: not of the judicial consequences Gail would have been a godsend) but of the other, more sinister form of retribution she might have to face.
Their cases — bail hearings only — were dealt with swiftly. Both were remanded on bail to reappear before the court in three weeks’ time. Because of the additional charges levelled against Cheryl, extra conditions were imposed on her: her passport was confiscated and she was ordered to report twice daily to Blackpool police station and ‘sign on’.
The pair shuffled out of the court in silence and mooched moodily towards the town centre on their release. Neither noticed the man who was following them.
The two men were huddled by the room door, concentrating hard, paying no attention to what was going on around them. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows everywhere, enabling the Russian to tread with silence, unseen, towards them. His martial arts skills seemed to make him invisible.
He was on the men before they knew he was there. He chopped the neck of the first one, landing the hand- edge blow underneath the ear. The man crumbled like a bad wall.
The second man uttered something incomprehensible, but all he saw was the blur of something coming towards him in the half-light, felt a blinding crash of excruciating pain in his forehead and then the blackness of unconsciousness.
They awoke within seconds of each other, lying side by side on the double bed in the Russian’s hotel room. Their wrists were secured behind their backs and the position in which they found themselves was extremely painful and uncomfortable with little room to even wriggle.
The Russian had drawn the dressing-table chair up to the bed. He was sitting on it, legs crossed, leaning forwards with an elbow on his knee. Dangling loosely in his right hand was the Browning automatic; the weapon, combined with the stocking mask pulled tight over his face, distorting his features, made for a truly terrifying sight.
‘ So, you wake up?’ he observed, purposely adopting a thick, stereotypical Russian accent, reminiscent of James Bond films.
The first man, named Gary Thompson, the one who should have come alone, focused his eyes. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at, you bastard?’ he demanded, struggling to free himself, but instead rolling precariously towards the edge of the bed. The Russian pushed him back using the bottom of his foot.
‘ I don’t play at anything,’ the Russian replied evenly, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘I follow instructions and expect others to do likewise.’
‘ Meaning what?’
‘ You came with a colleague. Our meeting was supposed to be one to one.’
Thompson’s mouth twisted with guilt. ‘So fucking what?’
‘ I was naturally upset by the change of plan and wished to negotiate from a position of control, shall we say?’
‘ You can say what you fucking well like. Now let me go or-’
‘ What?’ the Russian asked sharply. ‘My friends in Russia will be very disappointed by this lack of
