hell of a job convincing him. Davison needed a result on the murder PDQ.
For the present, Henry was content to coast along and let Thompson and Co. believe they were buying stolen whisky. He whistled as he drove and smiled. What had started off as something he had not wanted to get involved in was opening out and becoming more and more interesting. The Russian Mafia, for God’s sake. Fucking up their expansion plans would be great fun.
But unbeknownst to Henry Christie, three people who had never met each other, but who had all met him, were thinking very dark thoughts about him.
Chapter Fourteen
‘ If you are ever thinking of pulling a job and you need some manpower or equipment, anything at all, you give me a bell. I won’t let you down, pal. I’ve got good contacts — discreet and very, very trustworthy.’
These were the words uttered by Jacky Lee to Billy Crane on the day Lee had been released from prison, following his sentence on the conspiracy and handling indictments which — way back down the line — had been instigated by Henry Christie. Crane and Lee had become cellmates by accident on transfer. Crane had been brought across from Wakefield and Lee from Wymott, both into Strangeways and slammed in the same pokey. Their relationship had blossomed and both had confided their plans for the future to each other. Lee had decided to shift his operating base from Newcastle to Manchester and Crane was planning to move out to the Canaries.
Crane remembered Lee’s words well and he knew they were genuinely meant.
He had given Crane a few contact numbers and then stepped out of Strangeways to build his life in the Manchester underworld, leaving Crane brooding and envious in his cell.
He thought that would be the last he saw of Lee, but had been proved wrong on his own release from clink, later the same year, 1996.
Unexpectedly, Lee met Crane at the gates in a gleaming white Roller with smoked-glass windows and a stunning Jewess in the back of it with the longest, shapeliest legs Crane had ever seen for many years, anyway. Lee took Crane to a pub in Crumpsall, north Manchester, where he threw Crane a ‘getting out’ party. This included an hour-long session with the Jewess in a first floor bedroom where Crane was fortunate enough to end up with those legs wrapped around various parts of his anatomy at different times.
At the end of the night Lee reiterated the words he’d said earlier to Crane and both men embraced each other.
It had seemed obvious to Billy Crane that when he needed muscle or equipment, a man like Jacky Lee was the one to approach, particularly as Crane had lost some contact with the part of the criminal world which could acquire shooters, cars, clothing and other blagging equipment easily.
Following the information-gathering sessions with Colin Hodge on La Gomera, Crane and Smith had flown back to England separately, both by roundabout routes. Smith went straight back to Blackpool to get things rolling from his end, and Crane went into Manchester to track down Jacky Lee.
He made his way back to the pub where his release party had been held. Very little had changed in the intervening years, except for when he asked the barman to put him in touch with Lee. It was only then that Crane learned of his death.
Crane had been a quick-thinking criminal since the age of ten. Although Lee’s death left him breathless for a moment or two, he quickly recovered and said, ‘Then, in that case I’d like to speak to whoever is looking after his business for him.’ Crane did not have time for sentimentality at that moment. That could come later, maybe. He needed quick action and if Lee’s successor could accommodate, then it was OK by him.
The barman made a discreet, hushed phone call.
‘ Someone’ll come along and see you,’ he said on replacing the receiver. ‘Drink?’
Crane settled down to a mineral water at the bar, positioned so he could see all the doors… just in case.
He had a short wait. Twenty minutes later, two seedy-looking characters strutted confidently into the pub. The barman nodded in Crane’s direction.
One of the men spoke to Crane without preamble or ceremony: ‘The message for you is that Gary Thompson now controls all of Jacky Lee’s businesses. He knows your name, knows your connection to Lee and says that if you are willing to talk, he is too. If not, fuck off’
‘ Business is business,’ Crane said philosophically. ‘I want to talk.’
The man jerked his head. ‘Come on then, we’ll take you.’
Out in the car park they searched Crane, found him to be clean. He was then driven by them, in silence, in the back of a battered Granada out to Heywood near Rochdale, where Thompson was throwing the birthday party for his girlfriend’s thirtieth.
It was as Crane was led into Thompson’s presence that he came face to face, fleetingly, with Frank Jagger. Crane definitely felt he knew Jagger’s face, but could not place him. Things moved so positively and quickly with Thompson that Crane did not have time to dwell on the encounter with Jagger, or ask any questions about him.
Crane revealed his plan to Thompson in a cautious way, saying that he wanted to hit a security van that was carrying a quarter of a million — tops. Big money by any standards. To have told Thompson that fifty million was up for grabs would have been asking for trouble. That kind of money makes people go glassy-eyed and start to scheme.?250,000 ensured that greed stayed more controlled.
Crane had holed up in a south Manchester hotel, near to the airport.
On the evening that Frank Jagger was due to sell a van full of stolen whisky to Thompson, Crane and Smith were dining in the hotel restaurant, bringing each other up to date on the progress of their arrangements.
Things were going smoothly.
Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov were eager to get involved in the blagging themselves. They would form the bulk of the personnel who would carry out the job. Smith was well on with his side of things: guns were being obtained from dealers all over the North so that no one person would get nosy after supplying a lot of hardware all at once; vehicles were being prepared by a car ringer in Blackpool. And Colin Hodge was still sweet and eager.
Both men were well satisfied.
At the end of the meal, Crane got up and visited the toilet. While he leaned over the urinal, concentrating on the task in hand, the image hit him like a mallet. He stood upright with a shocked expression on his face, uttering a violent swearword under his breath. He hurried back to the table, sat down heavily opposite his partner.
‘ You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Smith observed, puzzled.
‘ I have, Don.’ Crane stared thoughtfully past Smith’s shoulder, then pinged him squarely in the eye. ‘We might have a problem.’
Rupert Davison had always been a high flyer. He had decided at a very early stage in his career about the path it should take and then he had made it happen. He had been twenty-four years old when he joined the police with a business-related degree behind him and two years in industrial management. Two years after joining the Force he had passed his promotion examination to Sergeant, gaining the highest marks in the whole of the country that year. This automatically made him eligible to apply for the accelerated promotion scheme (APS) and after a series of gruelling interviews — at which he excelled — Davison found himself officially classed as a high flyer and was promoted to Sergeant, to the despair of his colleagues. It seemed to them only to confirm that the system was flawed. Two years after that he was an Inspector with high expectations of progressing further.
Davison’s career plan had two prongs to it: one was to be a high-ranking detective at some stage, and another was to become part of that elite group of top cops known as ACPO — the Association of Chief Police Officers. He had his heart set on becoming a Chief Constable by the time he was forty-five.
Whenever possible, he engineered time on CID duties; this was fairly easy to do, as people on the APS could, to a degree, pick and choose their developmental posts. Hence he did short spells as a Detective Constable, Detective Sergeant and Detective Inspector — to get these on to his CV. He eventually got stuck at uniform Chief Inspector, much to his annoyance. Because of this he answered a job advert in Police Review asking for suitably qualified officers to apply for Superintendents’ vacancies in the Greater Manchester Police.
