The lure of two more duty-free Benson amp; Hedges Specials bought on her flight into Tenerife and a couple of miniature vodkas from the mini-bar in her room kept Danny dallying on the balcony for another half hour, watching the harbour lights and blowing smoke rings into the balmy night air. At one point she almost jumped out of her skin. There was a sudden silence, just for a fraction of a second. No music, no people, no cars, no hubbub — and in that moment she could have sworn she heard the roar of a lion. She dipped forwards in her plastic chair, ears craning. Then all the other noises clicked back into place. She sat back slowly, positive for a moment about what she’d heard. Then she shook her head and smiled, convincing herself it couldn’t be. Must have been a gust of wind.
She took one last long drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before standing up and brushing her skirt down. Her stomach gurgled its hunger impatiently. She thought that perhaps she might have heard that rumbling rather than a lion.
Time to move. She caught the lift down to the foyer and walked out the hotel.
‘ That’s her,’ Gillrow whispered to Loz. They were sitting behind a pillar, pretending to read newspapers, waiting on the off-chance of spotting her.
Loz nodded. ‘I’ll sort it.’ He folded his newspaper and slapped it across Gillrow’s chest. ‘And I’ll enjoy it.’
He followed Danny out into the night.
The journey to the rendezvous point took three-quarters of an hour. Henry followed Terry out of Blackburn and over the moors to Haslingden in East Lancashire; through the towns of Rossendale — Rawtenstall, Waterfoot, Bacup and Whitworth (all areas Henry knew of old) — winding down through the narrow main roads until they hit the Greater Manchester boundary at Rochdale. Here Terry did a sharp right off the road into a steep valley known as the ‘Thrutch’, where a river ran fiercely through a narrow gorge. This was Healey Dell Nature Reserve, just inside Lancashire.
The road twisted tightly down until it bottomed out, flattened and widened on the valley floor, then began to rise gradually again. This time, on the right, was the entrance to a small industrial estate, consisting of brick-built units once part of a larger mill.
Terry drove in; Henry followed in the low-slung XJS, careful not to rip out the underside of the car on the uneven ground. They drew to a halt outside the shutter door of unit number four. Obviously this was one of the places where Jacky Lee — and now Gunk and Gary — stored contraband. It was heavily fortified but there was no burglar alarm on the premises. Cops turning out to false alarms could prove extremely embarrassing.
Henry switched the Jag engine off, got out and mooched over to Terry. He stayed in the van, window down, elbow out.
‘ Where the hell are they?’ Terry asked.
As if in answer, the sound of a powerful engine grew nearer and louder. A Jeep bounced on to the industrial estate, going far too quickly, scrunching to a swerving halt just four inches away from the back end of the Jag.
‘ Wanker,’ hissed Henry.
Gunk Elphick alighted from the vehicle, alone, big, bright, smiling; volatile and dangerous underneath. ‘OK, guys,’ he called. He fumbled in his jeans pocket, producing a set of keys, then opened a side door and went into the building. A few seconds later the big shutter door ascended noisily. ‘Reverse the van in,’ Gunk shouted.
Terry manoeuvred the Mercedes into the unit. Gunk leaned nonchalantly by the control box for the door. Once the engine had been turned off, he smacked the ‘door close’ button with the palm of his big right hand.
Henry opened the van doors, displaying all the boxes of whisky inside. It was one of those cheap mixed brands which he quite liked to drink in quantity, usually diluted with something else he would never even have shown to a decent single malt. It was good, pub spirit.
Gunk and Terry joined him.
‘ Stack ‘em, over there.’ Gunk pointed to a corner of the unit where there was space amongst other boxes of merchandise. Henry’s eyes had already roved and seen that the majority of the other gear was electrical — cheap tape-recorders and some fairly dated-looking word processors. There was also a selection of do-it-yourself equipment, including power tools and Black amp; Decker Workmates. Henry winced at the thought of DIY.
In one corner of the unit was a good quality multi-gym setup, probably where Gunk came to work out. A series of weights were scattered about the floor like huge coins.
It took about forty-five minutes to empty the van. Henry and Terry ended up beaded in sweat, breathless. Gunk showed no signs of strain.
‘ Good stuff,’ beamed Gunk, hands on hips, surveying the piled-up whisky. He smiled at Henry, whose flesh crept. Gunk’s mobile phone chirped some obscure sequence of notes. He fished it out of his back pocket and thumbed a button. ‘Yep?’
Gary Thompson did not live very far away from the industrial unit to which the whisky had been delivered. He inhabited a large, modern apartment on the outskirts of Rochdale in a soulless building where neighbours kept themselves to themselves, ensuring he could live a life of coming and going without raising eyebrows. He lived there with his — now — thirty-year-old lady friend. They planned to marry in the near future.
As the whisky was being delivered, Gary was in deep conversation with Nikolai Drozdov across the dining- room table. They were discussing the job which had been presented to them by Billy Crane. Both were eager to get involved. It was easy money, exciting and dangerous. Just what crime should be.
The first phone call to interrupt them came to Drozdov’s mobile. It was a short terse message and Drozdov had no time to respond to it. The call ended abruptly.
‘ A warning from my friends in Russia,’ he said to Gary. ‘Check out the guy who was with Jacky Lee when he was shot. Could be a cop. Stress “could be”.’
‘ Frank Jagger,’ Gary said stonily.
Then Thompson’s own mobile rang. It was Billy Crane. He did not introduce himself, just expected Thompson to recognise the voice. ‘I know where I’ve seen that guy Jagger before,’ he said quickly. ‘Twelve years ago. He was a cop. Is he still one, or what? Think about it.’ The call ended.
Gary repeated Crane’s words to Drozdov. A horrible feeling, like rats eating away at him, gnawed in the pit of his guts.
‘ Once is OK,’ Drozdov began his mantra. ‘Twice is coincidence-’
Thompson’s phone rang again, startling both men. The voice of a man Gary did not recognise said slowly, just once, ‘Frank Jagger is a cop. If you do not kill him, he will destroy you.’
‘ Shit! Either this is one big fucking joke, or else we’re in deep crap.’
‘ Three times,’ Drozdov concluded, ‘means big trouble.’
Gary nodded. ‘We need to get out of here and go to ground,’ he said, punching a number into his mobile. ‘Gunk? Is that you?’
‘ Sure is,’ the big man answered.
‘ Are you still with Frank Jagger?’
‘ Sure am.’
‘ Well, listen fucking good. Don’t do anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid. He’s a cop. I don’t know about the other one, but Jagger definitely is. Get out of there without making him suspicious. Got it? See me down at the Crown and we’ll take it from there.’
‘ Yep, OK,’ Gunk said brightly as though nothing untoward had happened. He folded the mouthpiece of his mobile and slid it into his back pocket. As he had listened to the call he had wandered away from Henry and Terry. He turned and smiled at them. They smiled back, unaware of any problem. Gunk’s eyes focused briefly on Henry. This was just the opportunity he had been waiting for.
‘ Ready to go?’ Gunk asked Terry. He pressed the button to open the shutter doors. Terry climbed into the van and started up. He drew slowly out of the unit, Gunk and Henry walking alongside.
‘ Frank,’ Gunk said quietly to Henry, ‘that was Gary on the phone. He wonders if you could spare the time to go and see him — like now. About those ciggies you offered him.’
Henry tutted. ‘I’ve got other things on. I’d really like to, but I can’t.’
‘ It’s business — you won’t get a second chance.’
‘ Where is he?’ Henry sighed.
