He sailed through the selection procedures, was transferred form Lancashire and appointed to uniform Superintendent. Eventually, assisted by his CV, he got a job as a Senior Investigating Officer on the CID.
This was where his problems began.
He had not realised that a wide CID background was a necessity for this role. He had thought of the SIO more as a management function, rather than an investigative one. He was wrong. Whilst the management side of it was very important, the nous of an investigator — a body-catcher, a detective with a good nose for a collar — was probably even more important.
The first couple of murders he found himself heading were cleared up easily, lulling him into a false sense of security. The next six got nowhere and he started to panic. Six major investigations stalling was not good news for someone who wanted to go higher.
He desperately needed a spectacular success.
Davison knew that in his early days as a cop, his reputation had been one of recklessness. He had managed to curb that very successfully, even though on some occasions this trait would resurface: once, for example, as a uniformed Inspector, he single-handedly rugby-tackled a gunman at a siege, putting his own life and those of others in extreme danger, but at the same time achieving a remarkable result. He had been severely criticised for his actions internally, but externally the media hailed him as a hero.
It was that side of his personality that was driving his actions at the present time. If he didn’t get a result in the Jacky Lee murder case, he knew his time as an SIO would come to an ignominious end and maybe his promotion prospects would be spoiled for ever.
Desperation and the possibility of a superb result made him use Henry Christie and Terry Briggs’s statements and actually interview Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick himself. He could almost visualise the newspaper headlines acknowledging his success. But his lack of criminal interviewing skills showed when both men laughed in his face and admitted nothing; then when Henry had been beaten up, he realised what a stupid error he had made — hence his idea to make the master interview tapes ‘disappear’ from the library to cover his tracks.
And now his career was facing its biggest ever crisis: Henry Christie’s threat to expose his incompetence.
Davison knew that if Henry kept his word — and there was no reason to doubt it — he was finished. Certainly his time as an SIO would end. The subsequent enquiry would highlight his foolhardiness in jeopardising the life of an undercover cop and he would no doubt be accused of corrupt and improper practice for interfering with the interview tapes, maybe even theft. His police career could well come to an end in shame and disgrace.
Yes, Davison realised, in Henry Christie he had a problem.
Six hours after the Russian, Yuri Ivankov, had landed in Paris from Manchester over a week earlier, he was sitting in a cafe in the north of the city of Boulevard des Batignolles at the busy junction with Rue de Constantinople. He was eating a plate of oysters followed by ris de veau and had been there for thirty minutes, mixing in easily and inconspicuously with the early evening crowd, when the target arrived.
Yuri had been adequately briefed on his arrival in the city by a man who sat next to him on the coach from the airport. Little had actually been said, but that did not surprise the Russian. In his area of speciality, most people did not want to interact socially with him. He understood this, took no umbrage. The man simply handed him a slim briefing pack to read, containing a few, but essential, details; these included several recent photographs of the target, when and where he could be found that evening, where and what type of weapon would be available for use.
The Russian scanned the pack a few times, then handed it back. He and the man made no eye-contact and the remainder of the journey passed in silence. The Russian was at a window seat, watching the Paris skyline draw closer. It was a city he loved. He regretted not being able to spend much time in it. After tonight, his second hit in the city, he doubted he would ever return for pleasure.
When the target appeared at the time specified in the brief and sat down as predicted, the Russian was pleased. It meant homework had been done. It also meant the target was a creature of habit, something that no underworld player could afford to be. Not if he wanted to stay alive.
The Russian wiped his mouth and checked his watch. Two minutes to go.
He had already called for the bill and placed a generous amount on the saucer. Generous enough for the waiter to develop a fogged memory.
Only then did he reach underneath the table to remove the handgun that had been taped there. The Russian did not check it. The briefing note had specified where it was to be found, that the safety would be off and that the gun would be wrapped in a plastic bag to prevent the spent cartridges ejecting. That was a nice touch, the Russian had thought. Empty cartridges meant evidence. The note also said there would be a bullet in the breech and therefore the gun would be ready for immediate use.
He stood up and strolled slowly out the cafe. It was a warm night. Many of the outer tables were taken. People chatted happily, concentrating on their food and wine.
He weaved between them, came up swiftly behind the target and simply fired four shots into his head. The Russian had been informed what type of bullets would be in the gun. The damage done to the man’s head confirmed this.
Two long strides took the Russian to the edge of the pavement.
Seemingly from nowhere, a trials bike screamed across in front of him, two on board. The passenger held open a black plastic bag into which the Russian dropped the pistol. The bike revved, slewed away into the traffic and disappeared, immediately replaced by a black Citroen. The rear passenger door swung open and the Russian coolly flopped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. The car accelerated away. The Russian did not have the slightest inclination to glance back over his shoulder to see the terrified confusion he had left in his wake.
It had been an easy hit of the type he had pulled a dozen times before.
He was whisked away by more silent men, herded from one car to another around the outer perimeter of Paris until he found himself in the front passenger seat of a sleek Peugeot sports car, heading south towards Orleans. From there he changed vehicles again and travelled through the night to Clermont-Ferrand where he was ushered into a grimy hotel for a few hours. Another car picked him up at dawn and transferred him to the airport. Posing as a Swiss businessman he flew to Rome. From there he picked up a short flight to Luqa Airport on the island of Malta.
The last leg of his journey was by helicopter to Gozo, Malta’s sister island, and then by hire car to a villa in the village of Gharb where he had been crashed out ever since pulling the trigger.
Other than the staff — cook and gardener — he was alone in the stone villa. This suited him. He developed his tan and maintained his fitness by using the small gym and pool. He relaxed by reading some naval fiction, particularly Patrick O’Brian novels which he adored. He had picked these up at Rome.
He knew he would be safe at the villa. The place was owned, via a chain complex enough to deter even the most dedicated investigator, by a Mafia family from Naples who did regular business with the Russian’s master — the Drozdovs.
It was on the eighth day of his sojourn that his relaxed mind churned over recent events in his life. In particular the assassination he had carried out in Northern England.
He had been pleased enough with the job, having carried out his instructions to the letter. But what made his eyes narrow thoughtfully as he ate alone on the terrace, were the actions of Jacky Lee’s companion, the one he had pondered over before, the one who had pointed a gun at him, dropped into a combat stance — and not fired.
Surely if the man had been a friend of Lee, he would have opened up. Yet he didn’t. He had a golden opportunity, but chose not to fire.
That gave the Russian a very creepy feeling.
If the man had had a military background, he would have fired.
If he had been a criminal, he would have fired.
But if the man had been a cop — he would not have fired.
Soldiers and criminals don’t think twice about shooting people who are running away. Cops do.
The Russian knew he was only guessing, but he felt compelled to tell someone of his misgivings.
He finished his meal quickly, then made his way to the study in the villa where there was an e-mail facility. He logged on and started to type.
He would hate the man to become any sort of a problem.
